30 is the New Boring

Eponymous

2011-07-18T15:33:00.000-07:00

I'm about to make a crazy analogy; no need to call me on it, I already know. I hope you're not offended, but there's a great line in The Princess Bride, just as Buttercup is about to off herself in perhaps the most painful and savage suicide in history (seriously, trying to stab yourself in the heart?!), Westley pipes in with this gem: "There's a shortage of perfect breasts in this world. T'would be a pity to damage yours." Well spoken, sir. It may seem odd, but that's how I felt about this last weekend. Let's just say there's a shortage of perfect weekends, but this one was a Buttercup.

Let's start with this: I am easily satisfied when it comes to time off. 51 weekends a year I do my laundry and sleep until 9 am, and that's enough for me. Anything beyond that is pure gravy (if gravy is your measuring liquid of choice.) So the chance to see my beloved Texas Rangers in action, live and and in person, is an entire boat of Mom's world-famous gravy. Back to back games? That's an open-faced roast beef. Me and my brother openly rooting for the Rangers at Safeco Field? Insert your favorite food.

The brother, his wife, and rossnation... rolled into Safeco Field like a freight train on Saturday. That is, if a freight train could pull off a Josh Hamilton jersey like the 'nation. But as we all know, trains don't wear clothes. And let me be clear, the best place in the world to watch a baseball game is Safeco Field. End of story. I understand that Fenway has more history, and Wrigley is the friendly confines, and on and on. You can make a case for every ballpark (except Tropicana.) But if you want comfortable weather, a pristine field, a good seat, and a nice selection of ballpark (read unhealthy) food, there is no contest. Safeco doesn't even smell like forty thousand people. They retracted the roof just before game time, it was 67 degrees, we had seats halfway up the third base line, and the smell of garlic was hanging in the air like delicious tear gas. It is, quite simply, perfect.

I don't remember my first baseball game, but I'd like to think it was a lot like this. I am still in awe of how green the grass is, the sharp contrast it makes with the cleanest dirt on earth, the chalk on the world's largest chalkboard. Baseball didn't grow up, and neither did I, I just got bigger. Which is why my heart still paused briefly when Ian Kinsler lifted his bat and took a mighty cut at the third pitch of the game. The 'nation and the brother stood, almost in slow motion, the only ones in a sea of Mariners fans, and watched as the ball rocketed into the seats in left field, and I raised my glove in joy. There is triumph, and then there is being alone in that triumph, as Grant and I were in that moment. It's your first kiss, the birth of a child, the winning lotto number. It's an elation so pure you could sterilize with it. And then you get booed, and you do not care.

The Rangers won their tenth game in a row on Saturday, and it was never really in doubt. Ian hit another home run in the eighth inning, and 30 thousand other souls went home with a brick on their hearts, but not us. On Sunday Grant and I watched the Rangers win again from the comfort and anonymity of the box seats, easily the best view I've ever had of a baseball game, as long as you don't count my couch, which I don't. We gorged on garlic fries (if crack was a starch), fish and chips, a 12 dollar hefeweizen, and the knowledge that the Rangers hadn't let us down. It was a Buttercup of a weekend, and even the 5 hour drive back to Moscow couldn't have made it any less perky.

rossnation... out.

Super Ocho (as the Spaniards would say)

2011-07-05T22:08:00.000-07:00

This is perhaps the most misleading business name ever; there is nothing super about this place. On the one hand, I've stayed in some fairly janky motels in my day. Like the one in Gardena, California, where I woke up one morning to find the hallway cordoned off because someone had been stabbed the night before. Or the hotel in Bowling Green, Ohio with the carpet that smelled like... stuff. And to be fair, my apartment isn't exactly the Four Seasons. So I've got no beef with the Super 8 in Moscow: it's clean, it's got internet, and, most importantly, a flat surface to sleep on. But it is not super. In fact, I'm not even sure it's 8!

So why am I in a motel in the town I live in? Natural disaster, act of God, the dangers of old buildings? All of the above. In a cruel twist of fate, my bedroom ceiling leaks when the upstairs neighbor uses her kitchen sink. If I was in a romantic comedy, this would be how I met my soulmate. I'd go upstairs to ask if she was setting up a swimming pool in the kitchen, and you can imagine there would be a lot of slow motion shots of her tossing her hair, and probably some uncomfortable stammering on my part. Actually, that's kind of what happened, minus anything clever coming out of my mouth. But honestly, Ryan Reynolds I am not. (Tweet @rossconation to tell me who you think I am.)

So the downside of this whole ordeal is I'm staying in a motel for a few days while they rip apart my bedroom to look for the pipe that's leaking, and then a few more days while they put my bedroom back together. In fairness to my very sweet landlord, the real downside is that it will probably cost a pretty penny. But, as we all know, landlords are flush with cash.

So what, you're asking, is the upside? Well, permit me a wry smile as I tell you. The upside to situation is this: you cannot imagine the relief I felt when I realized that the ceiling was leaking onto my bed... and that I had not, as I first thought, wet it.

rossnation... revlieved. and out.

Defending the Deep

2011-04-24T01:28:00.000-07:00

Spring brought something new to rossnation... this year: expectation. And I don't know if I'm comfortable with it. The month of April is the second best month of the year (Febtober being number one, obviously). April brings with it two great things - rossnation...'s birthday (or what I like to call The Birth of a rossNation), and baseball. Now, if baseball was a church, it would be called Our Lady of Perpetual Sadness. If you're a Rangers fan that is. But since my boys in blue and red made their magical run to the World Series last year, they had to change the name to Our Lady of Perpetual Unease. In previous years, I could watch from afar as the Texas Rangers slowly imploded over the next five months. Needless to say, making the playoffs was merely wishful thinking; it was never seriously on the table. But now, the Rangers aren't a sleeper pick, or perennial basement dwellers; they're the favorites to win the division. So I found out some things about rossnation... that I didn't know. The biggest thing is that I care about baseball in general, and the Rangers in particular, to an unhealthy degree. I purchased a subscription to MLB.tv so that I could watch every Rangers game. All one hundred and sixty two glorious afternoon's hen the Rangers take to the diamond, I'll be watching, either at home, at work (but not at the expense of my work) I'll be watching on my iPhone, and everywhere else I'll be watching on my iPad. You don't need to tell me how sad this is, because I know, but also this is who I am now. I HAVE to watch. rossnation... is no longer a Rangers fan; we are Rangers Superfans.

There's good and bad in this new world order; it's like Darth Vader. The bad is the obsession. Obsession is dangerous, and I don't want to become one of those people whose life revolves around a sports team (those guys have difficulty talking to women). The good side is that I have hope. The Rangers are good, and good enough to be considered World Series contenders.

But as I mentioned before, hope is an emotion with which I'm not real familiar. But it's why I have to watch, so that I can find out, every game, whether hope will continue, or be dashed upon the rocks at the bottom of the AL West. I don't want to be down there again; that's where the sadness is, and former steroid users. It is only for the faint of heart.

But rossnation... will not be denied this season. We'll be buying Mitch Moreland jerseys and "Fear the Claw" bumper stickers and box seats for when the Rangers play in Seattle. rossnation... will throw all of our childish and misplaced enthusiasm at the Rangers, and throw all of our hatred and vitriol (and perhaps poop) at the evil Yankee empire.

GO RANGERS!

I'm rossnation..., and I approve this message.

The Redemption of Aaron Rodgers

2011-02-08T16:32:00.000-08:00

You made an enemy out of me long ago, Aaron Rodgers. I remember the day very clearly, because it was actually two days. In September of 2003, you quarterbacked the Cal Bears to a triple-overtime victory over my beloved USC Trojans. That’s more than enough to put you squarely in the Book of Ross (I have no idea why that’s capitalized) as an enemy of the state, along with the likes of Tiger Woods, Jim Gray, and the people who sell those ion bracelets. Thirteen months later, you almost beat them again, and in dramatic fashion, by completing your first 23 passes -- and it scorched my insides to watch. You were so efficient, so methodical, so precise, so.... - excellent - that day, and I despised you for it. You don’t get to do that to my team and not incur the wrath. The battle was begun....

Consider this my surrender, Mr. Rodgers.* I’m sure that you crave my respect and adoration, so here it is.

I can’t pinpoint a single instance when I stopped hating you. It must have happened subtly, like how I’ve aged. But I think I became a fan for the same reason your name was written in the book: excellence. You completed 23 consecutive passes against USC in November of 2004. It was like watching Norm Abram build an armoire from scratch, conjuring beauty and functionality out of pure tree. The state of fervor that I was in at the time didn’t allow me to see it that way; I saw it as an affront to my team, an attack on my vicarious living through USC, even though we won that game.

Then you went to draft day 2005, to discover your football destiny. You sat and watched as the San Francisco 49ers lay one of the great NFL draft turds in history by selecting Alex Smith with the first pick. You took that with grace, and sat and waited some more (probably the better part of two hours) until you were chosen by a team that didn’t need you. I was positively flummoxed when the Packers picked you with their only first round selection, because no quarterback situation has ever been less in doubt than the Packers and Brett Favre. So why pick a backup quarterback that early in the draft? It didn’t make sense, but as my therapist once said, it doesn’t make sense to you, but it makes sense to someone. (Believe it, or don’t, but that double-talk makes incredible sense.)

So you went to Green Bay, and for three seasons sat and watched as the Great Brett Favre** sucked the love out of the frozen tundra of Lambeau. But patiently. Patiently waited for Brett to start self-imploding. Retrospect tells us Favre was already on the way to being run out of Wisconsin, looking forward to retiring several times and playing both the best and indescribably worst seasons of his life. And while he was doing that, you were just getting better.

On Sunday you finished it. You won the Super Bowl with the world’s most beat up team around you. You were unflappable in the presence of your brick-handed receivers. You weren’t dazzled by the bright lights of The JJ-Dome, or the bizarre and horrendous halftime show (seriously, the Black-Eyed Peas need to go away; the SB Halftime show is becoming a swan song.) You were not in the least frightened by the vaunted Steelers defense; in fact, I think you could tell they were too old to catch you. Overall, your game wasn’t flawless, but it was without major flaw. It was the epitome of excellence.

It occurs to me now that I became a fan not because something about you changed, or that you’re more likeable now, or that you renounced your allegiance to Cal. I’m a fan now because something in me changed: I appreciate excellence like I never have before. We live in an age were average is good enough for most, including me. But I can’t watch excellence in action and still believe in mediocre, not anymore.

So here’s to you, Aaron Rodgers. You’re my favorite player...

I just wish you were a Cowboy.

rossnation... salutes you.

*Don’t think for a minute I don’t see the funny.

**Denotes extreme sarcasm and hyperbole.

Life as a Bell Curve: Theories that Kinda Make Sense

2011-02-02T21:28:00.000-08:00

I don’t know that there’s any reason to try and put the mysteries of life into words. Finer writers than I have given that a go (Balzac, Hemingway, Clancy, Grisham, etc.), but we’re never really going to do better than “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” I’m gonna give it a shot anyway, just because that’s how I do. And also I noticed an intriguing correlation the other day, which I will share herein.

I bought a new bed on Friday, and this is only remarkable to me, but for several reasons. To begin with, it was time, and we’ll leave it at that. Beyond that, I’ve never owned a brand-new bed, at least not since it was my responsibility to provide it. They’ve all been hand-me-downs to some degree, and nothing to write home about (but a column, clearly.) My new bed? It deserves a few words, because it is... bizarre.

I suppose you don’t really get a good look at the mattresses on the showroom floor; as it turns out, they’re just a tad bigger when you get them home. School lesson for the day: a “tad” is a technical term, used in engineering and creative writing, whose exact value is 10 times. So picture in your minds eye a monstrosity of a bed that fills up half of my tiny little bachelor bedroom. And I don’t mean half of the square footage, I’m talking the whole three-dimensional space, cubic feet.

I should also mention that I’ve never owned an actual bed, with a headboard and a footboard, a truly adult piece of furniture. So the bed and the mattress form a mass about the size of a double wide trailer. This bed is pushed up against one wall, leaving about two feet on the other wall, just enough to fit my tiny night table and the set of dog stairs that I’m gonna have to put there. They’ll be for me, not my nonexistent dog, because the bed is also 4 feet tall. I climb into this bed, quite literally. And this is the apex of the bell curve -- the 5 or 10 years when someone can have a bed the size of a Datsun. You certainly can’t have one when you’re young; that’s the kind of parenting that’ll get you in the papers. And giving an Old person a bed of this magnitude would be cruel. And hilarious.

There’s much to be said,

From the size of one’s bed.

Whether tiny or skinny or plush.

The short and squat,

Perfect for the tot,

And also for old and flush.

The monstrous berth,

Right for large girth,

But not the feint of heart.

Only young and spry,

With a gleam in the eye,

Should fork out six hundred bucks for a bed that’s too tall to fall into when they’re exhausted after work or have had too many adult beverages. That’s just not good business.

So it’s not exactly Ezra Pound, but the spirit of the poet is in the air, hovering over my gigantic bed.

And I know what you’re all thinking; yes, I do have a very strange apartment.

strangeapartment... out.

The Incredible Importance of Retiring Gracefully

2011-01-23T19:50:00.000-08:00

So... I just saw The Social Network. And... I loved it. It accomplished the ultimate challenge in storytelling: it created characters so compelling that in the end you’re not sure who’s the good guy. Actually, I was so turned around at the end that I even felt semi-sympathetic towards the twin douche bags. But the reason I bring it up has more to do with how it made me think about technology and the direction it’s taking our society. (Yep, it’s one of those columns, so hang on to your proverbial britches. And also your actual britches.)

No one is ever going to accuse this guy of being curmudgeonly about technology. I love gadgets in general, my iPhone in specific, and am thoroughly giddy about some of the things we can do because of technology. Case in point, my Starbucks card is on my phone now. They scan my phone at Starbucks; totally bitchin’. (And let me tell you, wow, do the girls swoon over that.) But I’m definitely not the guy who’s excited about getting a personal bar-code tattoo, which is where we’re headed if you believe the naysayers, or the neigh-sayers, for that matter.

I’m more in the middle ground, like a Libertarian, or a shortstop. I’m all for being “old school”, but I am thoroughly convinced there are a few things that we can give up on, and allow them to go quietly into the night/oblivion, hence the Brett Favre reference.

And the first of these needs to be phone books. I will say one thing for Hagadon Directories et al: they’re sticking with it. They are tenacious holding on to this most archaic form of communication, and there is honor in that. But there can’t possibly be money in it. I came home to find the 2011 Moscow/Pullman phone book on my doorstep, and a tumble of different emotions overtook me. The first was annoyance, because I had to bend down and pick it up. Next came sadness at the thought of how many times this particular phone book would be opened (zero.) And then finally just a tinge of anger at the thought of what a waste phone books are. Please raise your figurative interweb hand if you’ve used a phone book in the last month... I’m sure there’s a few of you, but it was probably because you didn’t have internet access at the time, or you were trying to remember your home phone number from, you know, when you had a home phone. I wonder if the only thing phone books are good for is sitting on if you’re wicked short. It must be easier to sell skywriting ads than ads in the phone book. Where is the money in this game? It’s time to call it quits on the phone book. The internet has killed this one something fierce, so why not save me the hassle of throwing it away.

There’s too many similarities between the Favre and the Phonebook (great name for an album title). Imagine how fondly we could remember them if they had just bowed out gracefully. This is the conversation I picture, using my PLP Matt as the other end of it --

Me: “Hey, remember phone books? Those were the bees knees back in the day!”

Matt: “We used to have a jolly good time flipping through that thing, looking for funny name combinations!”

Me: “Whatever happened to those? You used to get a new one every year.”

Matt: “I don’t know, but we seem to be doing just fine without them. We don’t need them anymore now that everybody texts. Although, they did have those ads in them for plumbers and stuff.”

Me: “That’s right! I forgot that there were businesses in there. But if I need a plumber I can just google plumbers.”

Matt: “I suppose you could, but I judge you for that.”

Me: “You are very judgemental when it comes to plumbers.:

Matt: “I feel passionately about the subject! A man’s got to have a cause to fight for!”

Me: “I suppose.”

Matt: “Alright, I’ll call you later.”

Me: “How will you get my number without a phone book?”

Matt: “Touche. But I’m just kidding, I’m not gonna call.”

Me: “Oh, I’m not gonna miss you.”

See how nostalgic that could be? And it would be the same with Favre. The problem with holding on too long, is that inevitably our final memories involve the sad, like Brett Favre throwing sad interceptions and limping off the field like he’s me, or the sad phone book sitting on my doorstep, as if someone said to me, “Here, you throw this away.” And I did, I put that phone book out of it’s misery, right into the trash can where it belongs. If I respected it I would perhaps recycle it, but why is it my fault that someone still thinks this is a viable advertising medium? Don’t judge me; after all, it’s not like I’m googling plumbers...

rossnation... out.

The Incredible Importance of Superpowers

2011-01-16T19:40:00.000-08:00

So, it turns out that I’m a superhero.

Look, I’m as shocked as you are. But before we all get carried away here (you know, expecting me to start fighting crime and responding to bat-signals) allow me to temper your excitement, because I’m not a “traditional” superhero. They’re probably not going to make a movie about me. I have no superpowers, per se (except the power of the written word, which doesn’t get the ladies all a-flutter.) Chances are fair to middlin’ that I will not be on a lunchbox anytime soon. Which is fine, because I don’t think they make those anymore. Anyway, I’m more Clark Gable than Clark Kent. Oh, why kid ourselves, probably more Clark Griswold.

I guess what I’m saying is that I only have one superhero trait, but every superhero has it. I have a nemesis. This is not to be confused with an arch enemy, or the Swedish metal band Arch Enemy. My nemesis is my worst enemy, my most hated rival. Evil and perfect in all the ways I’m not; my exact opposite, especially when you consider that my nemesis is not a person. It’s a utility pole. (Yeah, a telephone pole, how’s that for a let down!)

Bear with me, unless you already checked out with that last sentence, and I can’t say I blame you. But good things come to those who wait, or so the Heinz company would have us believe. (Personally, I think that ad campaign was only necessary because they couldn’t figure out plastic bottles, and that’s just lazy.) That said, at least ketchup has a worthy adversary. My nemesis is so... incredibly lame, but this particular piece of dead tree just has it in for me, and I’m not really winning the war.

I’ll set the stage for you. On the hill behind our office, there is a street that progress has forgotten, and the utilities for the houses are still hung from an old, decrepit utility pole in one of the backyards. If this utility pole were a person? Betty White. Still hanging in there, but no one really wants to put a ladder up there, ya’ feel me? So for the sake of simplicity, we’re gonna call this telephone pole Betty. Betty stands in the backyard of 230 ---- St, at the top of a hill that is actually three tiers, 30 or 40 feet above the street. Betty is at the junction of two fences, so to climb with gaffs you have to stand on top of the fence and start there. Carrying a 60 pound extension ladder up the hill is the other method of getting there; also not fun. In the summer, I imagine it wouldn’t be that difficult or annoying of an assignment. The problem is, I’ve never had to work on Betty in the summer.

I’ve worked at Time Warner for almost four years, and I’ve only had to access Betty during the winter, only in the dark, and only with snow on the ground. And not once, every winter. I’ve had to activate 234 twice, and disconnect it twice. Two houses over, 242, also gets cable from Betty. 242 is occupied by Moscow’s finest college boys, who I think probably like to zip line on the cable when they’re drunk. Plus the cable hangs under about 100 feet of tree branches which have a tendency to fall on the cable during the winter storms. Long story short(er), that cable comes down every winter, and I always seem to get the job of hanging it back up. Please don’t take this as complaining: I always have help, and I get paid a healthy wage and free cable to do it. But it’s exhausting, and cold, and annoying to have to do it over and over again.

And I’m starting to resent Betty and her offensive cables. She may be the most difficult pole in Moscow to get to, and she is conspiring to keep me coming back. About ten times, so far. She is trying to break me, like Lex Luther (in this analogy, I’m Superman; pretty sweet what you can do when you’re the one typing.)

So maybe I’m not a superhero. Maybe I’m reading too much into this. But I will tell you this for certain: Superman would make a hell of a cable guy...

cable guy!!! out.

The Incredible Importance of Moral Obligation

2011-01-08T21:01:00.000-08:00

According to Wikipedia (and let’s be honest with ourselves, this is where 90 percent of the world’s knowledge is housed) the phrase “moral obligation” is applied to an act that is perceived as part of a person’s belief system... and that’s about it. Seriously, this is the website that brings us hard-hitting articles about impact wrenches, wenches as they apply to British sitcoms, and “Ridin’ Wild” the 1922 western film directed by Nat Ross and starring Hoot Gibson (aside, I am the only person to “like” this on Facebook. Go ahead, check, I’m no liar.) And yet Wikipedia can’t give me three lousy sentences on a simple turn-of-phrase.

All whining aside, I was looking for information on the subject because it’s a weird combination of words. And I thought of it when searching for a way to describe my recent dabbling in the world of all-you-can-eat sushi. I think the theory probably applies to all forms of AYCE (BBQ, pizza, chinese, waffles, et al), which might be one of my favorite and least favorite concepts in the world. All-you-can-eat is a man’s game. It’s a battle of wits, for the princess, to the death...

I accept. As did my father, my brother, and our friend Brian. We did it without hesitation, or any thought to the prudence of the matter. Boise being so close to the ocean, and thus famous the world over for its sushi skills, how could we go wrong? Thus, we drop 25 dollars per for the opportunity to cram our mouths with as much Royal California, unagi, and yellowtail nigiri as we can possibly stomach. In my younger days, it was a small amount for me; I simply didn’t like to eat raw what-nots, irregardless of the freshness or large amounts of soy and wasabi. Also, I feel as if we’re sort of thumbing our noses at the guys who discovered fire.

And this is were “moral obligation” comes in. Because that is how Grant and Brian treated that meal. They knew that dad and I were weak, and would only eat slightly more than necessary to fill our tummies. For them, it was then gut-check time (blam, double entendre). It was their moral obligation to ensure that Yoi Tomo lost money, and the only way to offset the rest of us and the prohibitive cost of the hot tea (no bueno, by the way) was to eat their weight in raw foodstuffs. Which is tough, because rice expands as we all know.

It was an epic performance. Even the server started to get a little bit rattled. I don’t think she was used to such dedication to overindulgence. But as I’ve said, it was their moral obligation to get dad’s money’s worth; Jesus wanted it that way. I lost track of how many rolls we went through, but Grant and Brian must have taken down 15 to 20. It was dining as moral obligation; far beyond working to eat, it was eating as work, and a sight to behold. It was this type of dedication that sculpted the great pyramids, built the Oregon Trail, and took us to the moon. So I’m excited to see what Brian and Grant are able to do when they apply their energy something more constructive than putting a sushi joint out of business. Or maybe that in itself is a worthy goal: after all, if you open an AYCE restaurant, you’re just asking to be eaten out of house and home. And I know just the men for the job.

rossnation... out.

The Incredible Importance of Beautiful Words (that aren't mine)

2010-12-26T22:26:00.000-08:00

“Pay close attention, and write down everything I say, exactly as I say it. The first book of Moses, called Genesis. Chapter one, verse one. In the Beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. Verse Two. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters. Verse Three. And God said, “Let there be light.” And there was light.”

“Dear Lord, thank you for giving me the strength and the conviction to complete the task you entrusted to me. Thank you for guiding me straight and true through the many obstacles in my path. And for keeping me resolute when all around seemed lost. Thank you for your protection and for your many signs along the way. Thank you for any good that I may have done, I’m so sorry about the bad. Thank you for the friend I made. Please watch over her as you’ve watched over me. Thank you for finally allowing me to rest. I’m so very tired. But I go now to my rest, at peace, knowing I have done right with my time on this earth. I fought the good fight, I finished the race. I kept the faith.”

rossnation... defines and defies the universe

2010-12-12T19:02:00.000-08:00

Who among the faithful is acquainted with the PBS show "NOVA"? As a youngun' (not to be confused with a young gun) whose only real television choice was PBS, Nova seemed to have all the answers. That was probably because of the flashy 80's graphics and the fact that it was on at night. Turns out the best program on PBS was actually Square One TV, with Mathnet and it's incredibly realistic portrayal of the LAPD (they carried calculators in their shoulder holsters.) Now that I'm older I see these things clearer, and realize that the world needs a new NOVA, and that's where rossnation... comes in. So to the adoring public, we present the following theories:

Black Holes -- Traditional science would have you believe that a black hole is an area of mass so dense that nothing can escape from it. What Stephen Hawking won't tell you, though, is the truth: black holes are formed from enormous amounts of cheese. I know, it makes so much sense now, right? Think about how weird cheese is, and it's clear that we didn't invent it; cosmic intervention is the only possible explanation. But don't get me started on how this cheese is harvested. Let's just say there's a reason Tillamook can charge 13 dollars for a block of cheddar...*
Antimatter -- This will blow your minds, both individually and collectively. (Yes, rossnation... is a hive mind. You know, like the Borg.) Antimatter is the opposite of matter, supposedly. But I find this too simplistic. I think antimatter is nothing more than energy, and has a single purpose: it is the source of all rossnation... ideas. I'd write an entire essay on this, but it's about as likely to be published as a children's book written by Michael Vick.
The Bermuda Triangle -- This is nothing more than a joke that got out of hand. I surmise that it was probably someone making fun of Bermudian's math skills (which are notoriously suspect, but they're good people), but was warped into the current conspiracy theories as a way to explain why so many people seemed to go to the Caribbean and never come back. The real reason they were never heard from again is that it's warm there.
Justin Bieber's Popularity -- Forget it, even I don't have an explanation...
The Extinction of Dinosaurs -- My head tells me that the dinosaurs were obliterated by the climate change caused by a giant meteorite striking the earth. If I'm not mistaken, this is also the plot line of The Land Before Time, so I may just be flashing on that movie. What my heart tells me is slightly less believable: that the dinosaurs were actually hunted out of existence by - wait for it - Winston Churchill. I can't really figure why he held so much animosity toward the dinosaurs, but I imagine it has something to do with not enough hugs as a child.

So there you have it, there's some definitions. Have questions of your own that can't be answered with traditional science? I'll accept submissions, and you can help us defy the universe.

rossnation... out.

* According to Fish Master Matt Abrahamse, "All dairy products are better when reduced to a singularity." I concur. Also, is it a sign of the times that you can buy cheese on amazon.com?

The Incredible Importance of Saying Nice Things

2010-11-14T12:07:00.000-08:00

I had a very Mark Twain-esque moment today. It was one of those moments that is not really that funny, unless you think about it in a certain way. (My way, that is.) But no matter how you look at it, at the time it was hysterical, and no one is ever there to share the laugh with. Let’s just say that Matt or Mike would have pooped on themselves had they been there.

Twain once said, “I can live for two months on a good compliment.” I can certainly attest to that, and I think you’ll all agree. A real and true compliment from someone - friend, foe, or complete stranger - is a game changer. It’s a sad fact that in today’s culture a sincere compliment is a very rare thing, I think because most everybody is so incredibly self-centered. Because of this, I find that when someone says something nice to me (i.e. “You are extremely handsome and talented.”) the rest of the day is about 5 degrees warmer, so to speak. A sincere compliment can change someone’s week, and it costs nothing. And it doesn’t even have to be intentional praise, as I discovered today at the laundromat.

First, a word about my laundromat, Sudzees. It’s clean. It’s warm. It’s close to my house. It has free wireless internet (so slow as to be unusable, but it’s the thought that counts.) And it is generally not inundated with large, smelly trailer dwelling folk. And (very) occasionally there is a lovely lady there, also cleansing her unmentionables. Sudzees is the Peter Luger’s of laundromat’s.

So Saturday is laundry day in rossnation..., a tradition that dates back all the way to last year. Occasionally it has to happen on Sundays, depending on the level of apathy in the water. But it must be done, as rossnation... lays claim to only 6 work shirts, and would prefer not to be known the world over as “the stinky cable guy.” Thus, I found myself there today, cleaning my whatnots, when two older women approached me near the change machine with a pointed question: “Do you have a knife?”

The women were trying to open their detergent package, and being old, did not have teeth sharp enough to bite it open as I would probably have done. Not to worry, though, as I just happened to have a pocket knife gifted to me from my sister and brother in law not one day before. The timing could not have been more perfect, which leads me to believe that my density has bought me to you. (Back to the Future reference.)

I know you’re in suspense, so I’ll allay that by telling you that I did open their detergent. After all, I am a gentleman and a scholar, with many gentlemanly and scholarly things to do. But it was the few seconds afterward that changed my day for the better, when out of the wind, one of the women said to me, “You didn’t strike us as a knife kind of man.” Oh, be still my racing heart.

Her comment was so offhand that I almost didn’t catch it, and she clearly didn’t intend it as a compliment, but I couldn’t help but smile. For some reason, it was very comforting to me to know that I don’t look like a person who carries a knife. On the other hand, she might have meant, “You look like a person who can’t help.” I think I’ll take it either way, because if I look useless, perhaps I won’t be bothered with the trivial. But I opened the detergent, bowed deeply, and walked off into the sunset (and by sunset I mean the dryer section.)

The key here is that it made my day, and a compliment is such an easy thing to give. And imagine how big a difference it can make if it’s thought out and intentional. It can change the world, like Eric Clapton, except without the British-ness. And it’s better that way.

rossnation... out.

The Incredible Importance of Loyalty

2010-11-07T00:11:00.000-07:00

The Vandals need us. They’ve never needed us more.

We’re beyond the point of being able to call any loss “crushing,” simply because there have been so many losses in the last fifteen years. But after today’s one-sided defeat against Nevada, I can feel the passion draining from Vandal fan’s souls, and I think we might be at a crossroads. Now, far be it from me to suggest that I have any pull in the Vandal universe, so forgive me if I overstep my authority. I am but a lowly alumnus with an opinion: Idaho is a hair away from returning to the dark ages of Vandal football, and if that happens it will be partly our fault - and mine - as fans.

When I say the dark ages, I am referring to my own experience, the dismal years following 1998 when the Vandal football team posted a record of 30-86 (1999-2008). 1999 was a better year than most people may realize, especially when you consider that an 8-5 record is merely above average, and a bowl win is cool, but not earth shaking. Imagine the best meal you’ve ever eaten at Applebee’s, followed by a cone at Baskin Robbins. (You’re not gonna write a column about it, is my point.) But 1999 delivered something that I actually cherish more than wins: a head coach that I’m proud of.

I missed the salad days of Idaho coaches. John L. Smith, Dennis Erickson (the first time), and Keith Gilbertson helmed Vandal teams of note, but what I got was Chris Tormey (interviewed him once: kinda of a jerk), Tom Cable (terrible coach, keeps getting better jobs somehow), Nick Holt (leaves for a better gig every two years), and Dennis Erickson (the liar). Then comes along Robb Akey. I was skeptical to the max, as the kids say. After all, the man was a coach on one of the worst PacTen teams in history. But Senor Akey is infectious. He’s gotten under my skin with his passion and his perfect soundbites. He makes me want to believe in Vandal football, that there are better days ahead, that mediocrity isn’t everything. And now that I have that feeling I’m scared of losing him (insert weird comment here.)

But the awful truth is this: I wouldn’t stay if I was him either. Not with the support that we give him. I know Moscow’s a small town, but the Kibbie Dome is a small building, and filling it can be done. (In related news, I’ve heard an inordinate amount of complaints about the way ticketing was handled for next week’s “game” against Boise State, but I don’t think anybody gets to complain if we don’t sell out every game against top 25 teams.) Why would Coach Akey stay if we don’t show him that he’s wanted? Yes, that probably includes a significant pay raise, but money is less of a concern than showing up. Playing for a half-full dome can’t be uplifting.

On the flip side, how incredible would it be if in 25 years, we were Penn State. I know that Joe Paterno’s teams have not been dominant recently, but the man has won 400 football games, 24 bowl games, and two national championships. He has been the head coach at Pennsylvania State University for sixty one years. He is 84 years old, and still stalks the sidelines of Happy Valley as often as his legs will allow him. This is loyalty at its finest. Over the last year I have realized that loyalty (aka, commitment) may be the most important human quality that we possess. Or not possess, sadly. And that’s why, speaking only for myself, Joe Paterno is a hero. He’s a man with a passion for his work, for his employers, for his students and for his supporters, and doesn’t exhibit an ounce of selfishness. I sense the same aura from Robb Akey, and I want (perhaps naively) to see it even more in a quarter century. That kind of loyalty from him, and from us as fans and alumni, is what turns a mediocre program into a juggernaut. It can be done, but it isn’t easy and it doesn’t come cheap, and it won’t happen overnight. It will happen when we decide that being there for the team is important, every week, for every snap, for every rendition of Go Vandals. When we tell them they’re important by staying for the last whistle, even though it means getting stuck in traffic leaving the parking lot. When we do that, Coach will have good reason to think twice when the University of Whatnot comes calling with a bigger program and bigger wallet and a bigger...well, you know. When, not if, that happens we’ve got to make a stand for our coach, and be able to tell him, without a hint of inconsistency, that we are behind him to the end.

These principles apply to so many more parts of life, but that’s material for a different rant. The nuts of this column are a call to arms for all Vandal fans, alums, or Moscow indifferants. Let’s stop acting like football is just a game (even though it is), and treat our Vandals as a student that we’re trying to raise to be the President of the United States. It takes all of us to make that happen, by showing up, always, even if the game doesn’t matter. It takes all of us telling Coach Akey that we believe in his talent as a coach, and that we want him here. It takes all of us yelling ourselves hoarse, even if we’re down by double digits, to tell the players that we believe in their talent and drive, and that win or lose we will be with them next week, and next season, and the season after that. If we do that, they’ll talk about Idaho football on SportsCenter with the reverence they used to reserve for Notre Dame.

And in ten years (or so), Idaho will beat Boise State again. And this is my prayer, that we’ll prove them wrong. BSU will want to play in the Dome, because they have a worthy opponent there, or they will fear the Dome, because they have a butt-whooping waiting for them inside. I want to be part of that.

Until next time then. rossnation... out.

The Incredible Importance of Next Year

2010-11-04T19:32:00.000-07:00

    The refrain of Cub’s fans everywhere has always been, “Well, there’s always next season.” I don’t know what it is about Cub’s fans that makes them so innately optimistic and pessimistic at the same time, but whatever it is I seem to have contracted it, and it is a most displeasing feeling.
    It’s a phrase that reeks of sadness and resignation. There’s a comparable phrase outside of the baseball world that has the same feel to it: “Tis’ better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.” Borrowing from the great George Will, this is nonsense on stilts. Anyone who has lost knows that ignorance would have been preferable to pain. And it turns out, this is just as true in baseball. I once stated that I fell in love with a team that would never be good enough to break my heart. But then the sky fell in, and the Texas Rangers were just good enough (and just lucky enough) to get to the World Series. All of a sudden, life isn’t so simple anymore.
    I thought I wanted the Rangers to go to the World Series. And I knew, from my teeth to my toenails, that they were going to win. They had won on the road in Tampa. They’d beaten - nay, torched! - the hated Yankees. They were as hot as a Texas PWI in August (but less humid.) The Rangers were unstoppable, and my spirits were indomitable (forgive me if this writing is abominable.) What could go wrong?
    Here’s what: life does what it wants. I have no control over it, and thus no control over the happenings of baseball. And then the Rangers lost the World Series in five games, behind mediocre pitching and truly sad hitting. It was so one-sided, I am convinced that there was a conspiracy. Here’s what rossnation... thinks.
    I think you can draw your own conclusion from this factoid: Giants outfielder Jose Guillen has been tied to performance enhancing drugs. Even though he wasn’t on their postseason roster, this clearly implicates every Giant. Plus, this is the team that tolerated Barry Bonds for all those years. You do the algebra...
    Actually, that’s all I’ve got, and now that it’s in print it looks a little bit flimsy. Ah, never mind. Let’s face it, the Rangers got worked. And I think from now I’d be just fine with going back to the old ways. It was easier when they led the division at the all-star break and then lost 16 in a row because the bullpen had an ERA of 12.6. When they didn’t make the playoffs, I could move on to other things in September. It was a simpler time. But now I’ve tasted the forbidden fruit that is the World Series, and now October won’t matter unless Texas is in the hunt. And this makes me as bad as the Scott Mahurin’s of the world, with their Red Sox Fever and whatnot.
    Sighhhhhhhh... I’m already tired. But, hey, there's always next season!

rossnation... down and out.

What Once Was (Small Group Edition)

2010-10-17T20:18:00.000-07:00

Are you listening closely? I'm only going to say this once.

The stars are aligning, conspiring against me. And worse yet, they're conspiring against my brother. Me and He are a lot alike, in the one way that matters: we love the same things. The Vandals, the Rangers, the Cowboys, and our hatred for Boise State football. And because of these Four Pillars of rossnation..., this year has the potential for more pain than all previous seasons combined, and I'm not sure if I'm emotionally prepared.
It breaks down thusly.

The 2010 Vandals are average to slightly above average, but they're still looking at getting shellacked twice more this season. Nevada and Boise State both have compelling reasons to put up a 70-spot on us. Add in the very real possibility that the Idaho/BSU game will never happen again in the majestic yet confining confines of our beloved Kibbie Dome, and you've got a recipe for pain.
The Texas Rangers are not expected to pull out a postseason win against the Yankees, but they are the only reasonable hope I have for magic. So either they win the pennant, or they lose to the Yankees, which is akin to losing the Cold War for me. Or am I being over dramatic?
The Cowboys have a top 5 defense and a top five offense, and they are 1 and 4 on the season. In layman's terms, they sucketh.
The entire college football landscape seems to be in cahoots, beating up on each other to the point where BSU could potentially be the only unbeaten team left. If they were to win the national title, this would be the worst thing that could possibly happen, ever. Like if Red Dawn actually happened, except worse because we wouldn't have Patrick Swayze to defend us.
My young friend Jordyn guessed my age at 38 today. I am not.
I had a conference call today with the Rent's small group. LIKE A BOSS!

All told, there's a lot of things that could go wrong this fall, and the sum of these is a ton of hurt for the Gibson boys. The only thing that will redeem a year like this will be the immensely successful launch of the rossnation... PWI. And then we'll be making it rain in the club.

Or whatever.

rossnation... out.

Addendum to What Once Was (Playoff Edition)

2010-10-15T22:32:00.000-07:00

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I hate the Yankees.

What Once Was (Playoff Edition)

2010-10-13T18:24:00.000-07:00

Last night I got to watch (in HD) the most significant sporting event of my life. Not the most significant ever -- that would be hubris -- but for a young-at-heart-Texan-by-birth, watching the Texas Rangers win a playoff series in a deciding game was a revelation. (Side note, the Miracle on Ice is probably the most significant, but I was negative two months old. Mom didn't have HD in the womb.)
My first memory of any kind probably involves baseball. But for sure, my first memory of sports involves the Texas Rangers. Being born in Dallas gave me a birthright of sorts: the "gift" of falling head over cleats in love with a team that would never be good enough to break my heart. I'll admit to dabbling in Oakland A's fandom in the late 80's, but we were all taken in by Jose Canseco's muscles, and Dennis Eckersley's mustache. But my whole life I've been enamored of the red and blue, the extreme heat of a game in Arlington, taking my glove to the stadium, and Nolan Ryan (the greatest pitcher in the history of pitchers.)
The Rangers (nee Washington Senators) moved to Texas in 1972, which means 38 years of utter futility. Before October 12, 2010 the Rangers were the only major league team that hadn't won a postseason series; that makes them the least successful team ever, kind of. They've been to the playoffs three times in my life, and lost to the Yankees each time. This is where my hatred for the Yankees originates, but it doesn't stop there. And for a long time, I actually held the (semi) misguided idea that the Rangers actually lost when I was watching. They always seemed to find ways to lose, like whoever was fighting Rocky. At any rate, I've always loved the Rangers, and have always expected the worst. Tonight was no different; they were in danger of dropping a third straight game to the Rays and effectively ending my baseball season, thus forcing me to place all of my hopes on the Dallas Cowboys. Not an appetizing proposition. This is the choice between waffles and cauliflower. Gross.
But it didn't happen the way it usually does. They got timely hits. They ran with abandon. The Rangers were even the beneficiary of a horrific call by the first base umpire. But first and foremost, they had a pitcher. A player they weren't afraid to send out every inning. Even in the glory days of Nolan Ryan, I never knew if he was going to throw a no-hitter or get shelled for 8 runs in 3 innings. But for some reason, Cliff Lee makes me feel totally safe. And that is an uncomfortable feeling for a worrier.
When Elvis Andrus didn't drop a routine popup, thus winning the series, I didn't feel what expected. I expected to feel a sense of euphoria, a sublime happiness that I would struggle to explain herein. Instead, what I felt was more akin to ... contentment. Like being with someone that you love, and not caring if there's something fun to do, or something good on tv. You're just good. This is only important because it made me realize what true happiness is: your team winning once every 40 years, an idea for a great invention*, and a nice pen.

rossnation... will try to explain himself later.

*PWI

Return of the Mack (I'm the Mack, btw)

2010-10-11T21:40:00.000-07:00

I used to be wicked skinny. Actually, scrawny might be a more appropriate word. Consider this: in high school I could do pushups for days, because there was hardly anything to push up. I have since "grown up." (Or out, if you will, and I imagine you will, because rossnation... requires it.)

And all this was before I discovered the world's greatest weight loss program. Please understand, I did not invent this program. There is nothing new under the sun*, as the saying goes. But I'm here to tell you that there is no better way to shed 20 ell bees, and it doesn't involve liposuction, treadmills/ellipticals, gym memberships, Dexatrim, or eating disorders. All you need is 10 weeks in the world's hottest and least forgiving climate, and the will to survive. In 1998, I had the former, and God gave me the latter.

Please let me clarify a few things for you. To begin with, the rossnation... weight loss experience (rWLE) is neither easy nor cheap. It will cost a fortune, actually, but is well worth it. First, you need a plane ticket; Salt Lake City to Dallas, Dallas to Miami, Miami to Chicago, Chicago to Frankfurt, Frankfurt to Bombay, Bombay to New Delhi, New Delhi to Calcutta. (This is the preferred route, but it can be adjusted; I've heard tale of flights that don't originate in SLC.)

Next, you need to take this trip in the summer. The rWLE isn't nearly as effective when it's snowing in Canada. I got off the plane in India in the dead of night, and it was over 100 degrees. And as humid as Houston in August (and Mom and Dad wonder why I only visit at Christmas). I've never experienced something comparable to it, and there's no need for a metaphor. All I need say is that is was so hot/humid that I would be drenched in sweat immediately after getting out of the shower. I was probably dry for a total of three hours that summer. But now, rossnation... chooses not to sweat.

Step three is not a sure thing, but certainly a good bet. Any guesses? If you said giardia, you get a cookie. (You'll have to buy the cookie yourself though; I ate all of my cookies.) I'll never know exactly how I got my little friend, or my Dark Passenger, as I like to call it. I was careful not to drink the water, but it turns out that protozoa don't care how cautious we are. I'm actually pretty sure that protozoa don't have souls, but I'm researching it thoroughly, as I do with everything I write here. At any rate, giardia makes for one helluva companion. (We've been together 12 years now, and she keeps getting on me about forgetting anniversaries and writing thank you notes.) I'm betting that any kind of stomach ailment will do just fine for your own rWLE. Just as long as you're sick, that is the key.

If you're a huge fan of Indian food, the rWLE is probably not for you. I wouldn't try to lose weight by living next to an In n' Out Burger. But seeing how I don't especially care for curry and rice, I wasn't tempted to binge. In fact, all I could really bring myself to eat was soup (aside, soup isn't really an Indian culinary specialty.) Though I'm fairly certain that I may have eaten dog while I was there; no proof, but I've not eaten anything like it to this day.

The last step is the easiest. You walk everywhere. FYI, you can do this part at home, it's just not nearly as effective. (Do you like how I just told you that exercise is possible in the US? I thought so. I DO WHAT I WANT!) 5 to 10 miles a day will do the trick.

So, would you like to lose 20 pounds, even if you don't have it to spare? Combine one part extreme heat with one dash of Mahatma's Revenge, stir in a dollop of undereating and a gallon of exercise daily. (I think a food analogy is appropriate.) You too can go from a trim 150 to a sparse 130. This program is endorsed by Skeletor, and the funny looking kid in the picture. Anyone else think it's ironic that the Indian street kid is fatter than me?

rossnation... out.

*Or so the Germans would have us believe.

Babs as Inspiration?

2010-09-16T20:14:00.000-07:00

In an attempt to goad the ross into writing a new column (or blog, as he called it... not sure what that is), the hoot posted this to my facebook:

Blog please. Do you need a topic? Barbara Striesand.

I don't know about you, but I find no inspiration in this. (Nor will rossnation... be bullied into writing. IDOWHATIWANT!) Barbara Streisand awakens only painful memories in the depths of a tortured soul, the detritus of a misspent youth, forced upon a young the ross by a domineering older sister who loves musicals. Let's just be clear about this: it's all Amy's fault. She was the one who made me watch Hello, Dolly hundreds of times. Sadly, I don't think that's an exaggeration. In more news, there is actually a comma in the title of that movie, and it's Amy's fault that I know that, too. And that I know most of the lyrics. And that I love Walter Mathau. And that I know that beyond this hick town, Barnaby, there's a slick town, Barnaby.

What else did she force on me? How many of you know the words to The Sound of Music? Maybe a fair amount. How about My Fair Lady? (Transition joke.) Guys, who among you has sat through Gone With The Wind? More than once? This guy. I also have two thumbs. (Backward joke.) Pillow Talk with Rock Hudson and Doris Day? Grease. Dirty Dancing. Sixteen Candles. Sigh..... so much time lost. Come to think of it, I don't really remember getting to watch anything that I wanted! And why, when I've pretty much always been bigger than Amy? When I was born, I was already bigger than her! That is factual, ask my mom. rossnation... is a nation of truth.

So this is why I'm not inspired by Barbara Streisand. She, Julie Andrews, Molly Ringwald, et al, stole my childhood. And the Mathau is gone. That might not be Amy's fault...

rossnation... out

"The News from Moscow" or "What Once Was"

2010-09-05T23:45:00.000-07:00

This is much better if you read it in Garrison Keilor's voice. Actually, everything is...

Well, it's been a quiet week in Moscow, Idaho, my home town, out on the edge of the Palouse. The students are back after what seems like an unseasonably short summer break. Less than three months ago, they packed up their dorm rooms and apartments and loaded their earthly possessions into uhauls (or the family horse trailer) and took off. Most of them couldn't hie out of here fast enough, they high fived their friends and hit the gas, headed for the parents' house, summer jobs and laziness, and the promise of a hot sun to bake under. It reminds me of the summer of 2001, when I had finished my third year of college, and I was closing in on a degree in geography. This would prove to be folly later on, but at the time I was going to light the world on fire with my map making. That summer was my internship, 10 dollars an hour working at the Idaho National Engineering and Environmental Laboratory. It was supposed to be the launching pad to a high paying career in the fast paced world of computer mapping, the real rat race. Geographers are known the world over for their hard living so you can see the attraction.

I found that summer that it wasn't the ideal job, in the sense that it required me to wake up at ungodly hours like 6 am, and to input numbers into an Excel spreadsheet for 10 hours at a time, I had been lied to. It also required that I live in Idaho Falls for three months, a prospect that I seemed OK with at the time, but now I doubt I could stomach. Not that I have anything against the town, but by this time I had been acclimatized to Moscow, it's a different life. But I also found that despite a full adult workweek I had plenty of downtime, and so went in search of a second summer job to fill my hours and my pockets.

What I came up with was Yen Ching, Idaho Falls' newest Chinese eatery. I couldn't even tell you if it's still open, but I can say with certainty that it was about the strangest business I've ever been a part of. YC was owned by Chinese people. The cooks were Mexican. The wait staff were high school age girls, all, of course, with boyfriends serving their Mormon missions. And I was the 21 year old delivery driver. It would make a great sitcom, and I think we'd have to call it "Chinese Checkers."

Monday through Thursday from 7 to 6 I typed numbers into a computer, and Friday through Sunday and some weeknights I delivered Chinese food to the hungry people of Idaho Falls. This is the kind of thing you do as a student on summer break, and so it's no wonder that they're so excited to get back to Moscow, and that's what they've done this past week. First came the freshman, new students desperate to get away from their parents and assert their independence but scared to death to be on their own. Their parents bring them en masse, parking haphazardly all across Moscow, in the middle of the street sometimes, seemingly just to get in my way as I drive around in my unmistakable purple cable van. A few days later the upperclassmen come back and move into their new apartments, which are just now recovering from the last battle with the student body. Many of them are first time renters, and for most of them this is the day they realize that they need TV service, and more importantly Internet. So they call the good people at Time Warner, not realizing that ten thousand people just like them moved into the area within a few days, and therefore not understanding why it would take two or even three weeks for a technician to come and install these services. And so even though we're ready for it, we know they're coming, we still end up in the same position every year. Working the dreaded ten hour day, 15 technicians doing nothing but installing Internet and TV for people who may or may not go to class on the second day because of my work. This is the life that we lead here in Moscow, as the days turn into increasingly cold nights and the students begin to look forward to the next break. It's been one week of school and they're already looking ahead to Thanksgiving. And right now I'm everyone's favorite person; in a month I'm just the cable guy. But hey, it's a living.

That's the news from Moscow, where all the women are too young, all the men are saucy, and all the children are hippies.

rossnation... out.

RNWN

2010-08-22T14:50:00.000-07:00

A quickie: Three things rossnation... loves about the movie Backdraft:

1. You know a movie is good when it makes Billy Baldwin look cool and Scott Glenn look lame. Seriously, I love this movie, but it lays claim to maybe the widest range of acting ever. Donald Sutherland is awesome (of course), Kurt Russell is average, Jennifer Jason Leigh is horrendous, Robert De Niro is...himself. And Billy Baldwin is a Baldwin. So weird.

2. Baldwin's sliding-hose-tackle near the end is about the coolest move in the history of film. Perhaps that's why the call them movies. Yeah, wrap your noggin around that. It's also possible, though not likely, that we called them movies before Backdraft came out.

3. Kurt Russell's dying words: "I'm tired of hearing these sirens." Seriously, I hope I can think of something that cool. But I'll definitely be using that line as much as possible in everyday conversation. What's that, you say you'd like an example? Ross' friend: "Hey, Ross, how was work today?" Ross: "Busy. I'm tired of hearing these sirens." Ross' friend: "I know, we should stop meeting up at the fire station." A close second is D. Sutherland (for a real treat check him out in Kelly's Heroes) asking Billy, "Did it look at you? Did the fire look at you?" No, Donald, that was me looking into those beautiful, hazel-green, liquid... acting ability. Sorry, I gotta go, I'm doing something manly...

rossnation... out.

Sadness Afficianado

2010-08-15T21:19:00.000-07:00

Chong Li just laid out Ray Jackson. He almost killed him with a heal to the back of the head. And now he's flaunting it by taking Ray's bandana and waving it around like a Terrible Towel. Ray will be fine in a week or so, but it's still one of the saddest scenes in movie history. Don't mistake that for GOOD movie history; I'll not put Bloodsport in the pantheon of movies that are worth watching. But it got me thinking about movie scenes that make my eyes rain. What are the best tearjerking scenes in cinema? rossnation... presents some of our favorites.

>Field of Dreams: "Hey...Dad? You wanna have a catch?" "I'd like that."
This just slays me. I am a bucket of saline as father and son get their second chance, and
toss the ball back and forth in the growing darkness, while the people come. Anyone who ever
played catch with their dad is hard pressed to hold back the waterworks. After all, if you
build it, he will come. Or so the Germans would have us believe.

>The Shawshank Redemption: "I guess I just miss my friend."
Girls are super catty, and seem to go through friends like crazy, and I think that's why they don't get all choked up by Shawshank; but I don't know if I've ever met a guy who wouldn't list this among their favorite movies. Part of it, no doubt, is the revolving girlie posters that cover Andy Dufresne's escape tunnel, but the bigger part is the end/closing credits. If I ever open a store, maybe I'll call it The Sensitive Male, and I'll just loop this movie in the store. I can't imagine what I would sell; probably shaving cream and PWI's.

>The Hunt for Red October: "I would've like to have seen Montana."
Sam Neill gets shot, fatally, and Sean Connery gets shot and puts a sling on it. I'll never understand that. All Sam Neill's character wanted was to marry a fat American woman and raise rabbits. It destroys me when someone can't realize a goal as modest as that, just because the cook's assistant happened to be KGB. But isn't that how it always is in life? And it begs the question, are all cook's assistants communists?

>The Green Mile: "I call him Mr. Jangles."
This movie has an overall tone of sadness, but several scenes specific that just reduce me to a rossnation... compote. (Side note, rossnation... compote goes amazing with waffles.) This whole movie is one big sobfest, but when Big John is executed I think only those with dead souls can watch without weepiness. "He ain't never done nothin' to hurt nobody."

So what about the rest of rossnation...? What brings water to your face?

rossnation... out.

Do you have what it takes...

2010-08-04T23:13:00.001-07:00

to be a member of rossnation...?

Many apply, fewer are read, even fewer are accepted. Only the finest for rossnation...; and family, friends, distant relatives, exes, and dogs. rossnation... must be very selective about our initiates, simply because I must be able to trust each of them with my life. It's kind of like Fight Club, but without the soap.
But when you are accepted into rossnation... there are -- shall we say certain perks that come with membership. This is to outline some of those benefits.
>
>The fame is clearly the defining perk of being a member of rossnation... Being associated with this prestigious society* will put you in a pantheon of greats. (Ross McCrorie, Dr. Ross Van Camp, Jake Alger, the Dalai Lama, Tim Tebow, Clive Owen, Shia Labeuf, Megan Fox because of Shia, the list continues. So don't worry about being famous, it just happens.
> Can you imagine how easy job interviews will become when they see your affiliation to rossnation...? You're hired. And we'll throw in 2 extra weeks of paid time off.
>At some point, all members will have their own rossnation...corporate credit card to be used for business travel and what not. But instead of skymiles, rossnation...card holders get johnnycash that can be spent on great items such as face time with the ross.
>Members aren't required to wear pants in public.
>Members get first preference to be on The Real World.
>Members receive discounts at Nordstrom. Technically, they also get discounts at Ross Dress for Less, cause that crap is cheap.
> Members get to vote.
> Members are exempt from Lent, but not Easter.
> Members are not required to renew their vehicle registration.
> Members get priority seating at Seattle Sonics games.
> Members are at the top of the list to ride the Delorian once I get a new flux capacitor. Don't hold you're breath on this one.
> Free water when visiting Moscow.

More benefits to come.

rossnation...out.

*This is not a cult. I don't think.

Classy Action Suite

2010-08-01T23:19:00.001-07:00

I pose to my loyal readers, a question that has not been posited, ever. Why, in this age of liability and free money, have sufferers of gout never sued Hickory Farms?
Go ahead, digest that statement. It should only take a few minutes, as opposed to digesting a log of their summer sausage.
I ask, because as I was being diagnosed with gout at the QuikCare today, I asked my doctor the cause of this affliction. The scientific explanation is excessive levels of uric acid in the body, which form crystals in your joints, starting, of course, at 4:20...these crystals are causing the pain in the joint between my big toe and my foot. So where does the uric acid come from?
- Excessive amounts of alcohol. Not this guy
- Sweetbreads. Not bread that is sweet, but the throat, heart, liver, etc. of cattle. Definitely not this guy.
- Cheese. OK, but I'm not eating a block of colby jack everyday. Cheese costs more than gas.
-Summer sausage. Only in the fall, and at Christmas. I'm still trying to figure that out.
So back to the original question. Shouldn't I, as a gout sufferer, be filing a class action suit against Hickory Farms? After all, this is the company that every year puts a kiosk in your local mall with the express purpose of selling you boxes packed exclusively with summer sausages, "cheeses" of all kinds, and occasionally wine. And crackers, but Doc Henry did not seem concerned about crackers. But at any rate, they might as well call these gift packs, "The Gift of Gout." I know why they don't; sales would probably drop significantly. But somehow I think we're being cheated a little. Those boxes of junk look so inviting, and we buy them to give to friends and family, and eat on Christmas Eve, without concern for the painful toes in the morning.
Alas, I smell a National Lampoon to come out of this hilarity any time now, and I'll no doubt see nary a dime for this lightbulb of invention.

rossnation...out, but slowly, and favoring the right side of his left foot, as he heads to the fridge for a Philly liver steak sandwich.

RNWN

2010-07-31T12:52:00.000-07:00

WebMD mobile is the greatest diagnostic tool since the thermometer.

Case Study: the ross' foot hurts. Presenting symptoms: pain in the ball of the foot, brought on by placing weight on the foot. Possible diagnoses according to WebMD iPhone app:

Broken (fractured) foot -- possibly from kicking ass.
Sciatica -- possibly from being old.
Peripheral neuropathy -- the IBS of the peripheral nervous system.
Metatarsalgia -- Athletes who participate in high-impact sports involving the lower extremities commonly present with forefoot injuries, including metatarsalgia. No kidding. It's probably not this.
Corns and Calluses -- Nope.
Osteomyelitis (bone infection) -- I don't think so, but hey, I'm not a doctor. I just play one off-Broadway.
Poorly Fitting Shoes -- Insert caption here.
Lumber Spinal Stenosis -- Toe pain as a result of a bad back. Fantastic.
Multiple Sclerosis -- I think this is worst case scenario.
Shingles -- I sure hope not.

Indian Summer

2010-07-29T21:27:00.000-07:00

Titles don't get any easier than that. The rest of this story is much harder to tell. But you'll have to wait a bit, so I can get this right.

Who Do We Hate?

2010-07-27T20:38:00.000-07:00

Not Boise State!

Huh? Did I just say that? Yes, I did. And I surprise even myself, I'll not tell a lie. Because most any day of the year, I have...call it an extreme dislike for Boise State University as an Idaho alum. It's not unhealthy. I don't spend my nights dreaming of stabbing BSU fans in the knee with a box cutter or anything. But when you go to a school that has a natural rival, you have a tendency to adopt that mutual dislike. (And don't tell me BSU fans don't feel the same about Idaho. That's just dishonest.) And it really doesn't extend any farther than football and basketball. I seriously do not care who has the better engineering program, the better music school, the better toddler education program, etc. I am passionate about Idaho beating BSU 3 times a year, and (previously) in the basketball conference tournament. That's it. But today is different, because try as I might, I cannot muster anything but pity for BSU today. Because Bob Kustra, 67-year-old former Lt. Governor of Illinois and current president of Boise State University, opened his big yapper and stuck his geriatric foot in it.

When I first read his comments, I couldn't help but be upset, because BK didn't really make a distinction between the culture of Moscow and the culture of the University of Idaho football fans. At least the way it came out, it was pretty insulting to me as someone who lives in Moscow and calls it home. I'd be willing to bet that he's never been sitting in a restaurant in Moscow and been accosted by a "nasty, inebriated" Idaho fan. You know why? Because I've been a Vandal fan since I started school in 1998, and I've never heard his name until today, and I sure as shootin' couldn't pick his face out of a lineup. If Michael Jordan was a huge BSU fan and came to Moscow, someone would probably throw some snide comments his way. But we don't know who you are, Bob! When have you encountered this incivility?

Three years ago when BSU beat the tar out of Idaho here at the Kibbie Dome, I was bartending that weekend and sold almost $5,000 worth of booze in two days, by far the most I'd ever poured. The bar was packed with damaged Idaho fans and exuberant BSU fans, coexisting, drinking, having fun. To the best of my knowledge, zero fights occurred, even without a sober customer within a Moscow city block. Drunk, maybe, but uncivil? What's he talking about?

But then I started thinking about it, and realized I don't need to get worked up about it. If BK had stood up and said, "I really enjoy Moscow and the people there, and we have a great time at games there, and I respect the students and faculty, wah wah, wah wah," I would still hate Boise State for those several days a year. That wouldn't change, 'cause I'm an Idaho fan. It's the same way I feel about the Philadelphia Eagles, 'cause I'm a Cowboys fan. So if I have no real reason to be angry about his comments, what's left? Just the pity, and here's why.

I understand that Senor Bob probably never dreamed his retirement job would be trying to sell people on a university that is judged by its football success, but I don't think anyone is deluded into believing that their money doesn't stem directly from the Statue of Liberty Play. And I think there's worse hands to be dealt; it would be very difficult for anyone to say BSU is a serious national playa without the football team, but it's impossible for Idaho to say, because we don't have that. Fine, we all accept that you're in the middle of an awesome run, so don't try to tell me that BSU is an academic juggernaut. We make fun of your academics because we can. Don't take it personally, it's just all that we have right now. So what BK should have done is this: NOTHING. If he wants BSU to be recognized academically, he needs to accept that BSU is a football school, take the money, and build from there. Idaho certainly would.

Let Chris Peterson talk the smack. That's what the coach of a winning team gets to do. Does it benefit BSU to keep playing Idaho? Of course it does. Every powerhouse football team in the country plays filler games. It's why Idaho is playing Nebraska next year. The money is good for us, the win is good for them. But try this on for size -- if, instead of Idaho, Nebraska could schedule a local rivalry that was a certain victory, why wouldn't they? A win's a win's a win, and right now, sadly, Idaho is a sure thing. But Coach Pee is saying exactly what he's supposed to...and President Kustra should have stayed out of it. All he succeeded in doing was pissing off half of the state and revealing exactly what he is: not from Idaho.

What's the real problem here? Kustra is a Midwesterner, and no kidding, if you say U of I, he is thinking University of Illinois. He doesn't understand that a lot of us care about Idaho/BSU, and we should. Most Idaho fans have never shouted an obscenity at BSU. One of my best friends works for BSU athletics, and got his undergrad and masters at Idaho. I went to summer events at BSU when I was in high school. But at least for a couple days a year, I find a passion in me that I think is admirable at the least. If we win, I go home happy. If we get trounced, I go home in a blue funk (Bronco farts are blue). I live in Moscow, I'm a Vandal, and I don't care for Boise State.

But I'm not nasty, inebriated, or uncivil. Sorry if that disappoints you, Bob.

The Secret

2010-07-26T20:26:00.000-07:00

If you're looking for a review of the book The Secret, you have come to the wrong place. I haven't read it, and I don't plan to, because I don't think you can shove something truly revolutionary into less than 200 pages. Rather, this is THE secret to finding your soulmate. Some of you may be saying, there is no such thing as a soulmate. If so, you are a cynic, and need a dose of rossnation...to fix that. Some of you may say that there is no single way to find your soulmate. This is also incorrect, because the ross says so. I have figured it out, and I did so simply by observing love on TV. Not from a silly sitcom, or a drama that tells you never to date at work, but from a commercial. Yes, the good people at AT&T have had the answer for who knows how long, and have been holding out. So how do you find your true love?

Go to the train station. If you are male, stand on the platform and wait until you make eye contact with a woman who is already on the train. Then, buy a ticket for that train on your smartphone, and try not to miss the train.

If you are a woman, you have to work a little harder, because your job is to sit on the train and wait, but you might have to try multiple trains. This can get expensive, but it's the only way. When you spot your soulmate, you'll have a whole train ride to get to know each other, which is more than enough time.
So really there are only a couple things that make this less than fool proof. I understand that not everyone has a train station, so you'll have to move. And it has to be an underground train station, sorry. And you need a smartphone (I'm assuming with AT&T service. It may work on Verizon, but you wouldn't want to take any chances.) You need to be savvy enough to buy train tickets on this phone. Truth be told, I don't even know if I'm this savvy. But I know that if you are able to get it done, you'll certainly be able to order a PWI* after you get on the train.
So go ahead, give it a try next time you're waiting for a train. But when it works for you, don't forget rossnation...told you so. But consider yourself warned -- as far as I know, this happens every time, so unless you're looking for love, the train is out.

As is rossnation...

They Call Me the Matchmaker

2010-07-25T22:13:00.000-07:00

Some of thee may have thought in the past about trying an online dating site. Allow me to disuade you with this one fact: I've got a better way. It is simple, cheap, and matches you with your soulmate in one easy step, without filling out endless forms, "communication", or blind dates. Want to know the secret? Check out my upcoming book, One Step to Compatibility with the Love Technician. It will be available tomorrow at the rossnation... site. Leave your preconceptions at home, they'll do you no good here...

As always, no charge for awesomeness...or attractiveness.

rossnation...out.

rossnation...is faster than the speed of sound

2010-07-24T21:35:00.000-07:00

rossnation... breaks rocks with sass.
rossnation... is garlic flavored.
rossnation... can bake without an oven.
rossnation... needs no introduction, but probably needs an introduction.
rossnation... patented hyperbole.
rossnation... leaps tall buildings in as many bounds as he wants, but usually not one.
rossnation... runs the atomic clock.
rossnation... grows grey hair on purpose.
rossnation... spells things the British way.
rossnation... invented the Vespa.
rossnation... can spot a narc from a block away.
rossnation... used to run the dock workers union.
rossnation... runs unopposed.
rossnation... is in high-definition.
rossnation... does not have a dragon tattoo.
rossnation... can act his way out of a paper bag, but chooses not to.
rossnation... is OSHA-approved, but not ergonomic.
rossnation... thinks spell-check is for the burds.
rossnation... can charge your phone wirelessly.
rossnation... has never been accused of gerrymandering.
rossnation... can break you, fool.
rossnation... reinvented the wheel.
rossnation... will program your VCR, but will call you on still owning one.
rossnation... is the Beeper King.
rossnation... types in cyrillic.
rossnation... is a spicy meatball.
rossnation... will make the comb-over look good.
rossnation... is finally in my computer's dictionary...

Finish Him!!!!

2010-07-21T23:06:00.000-07:00

A couple things are hanging out in this head of mine tonight. They are in no way complimentary topics; the only place they happen to cross over is in my brain. Scary proposition. One of them is the fact that I watched The Book of Eli last night. I hadn't seen it before, and was actually quite surprised by it. It was the first movie in a while that I haven't expected anything from (or expected to dislike), and instead really liked it. First of all, Denzel is a bad, bad man. I did not see that coming. Although part of me thinks that it's mostly the sunglasses doing the heavy lifting. Exhibit A is how amazing I look with the same sunglasses (I took this earlier).

See what I mean? But Denzel isn't what I'm thinking about. It's more the ending of the movie that got my butter churning. No spoiler here, it's just what Eli says: "Thank you Lord for giving me the strength. I finished the race." If you know any of the Gibson men, you know we're big on the concept of running to the tape, finishing the race. So here's the problem, and the other half of my "head movies." The race I'm currently running? I have zero interest in finishing it. (Let me be clear that there is no actual running going on here.) This race is my little Facebook project that I've previously outlined. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but after 4 days of doing everything that my homepage suggested, I'm about to lose my marbles (or head waffles, as we call them in rossnation...) Here's a quick recap of the junk I've had to like. We'll call this our ReCrap:

How I Met Your Mother I do not care.
Britney Spears Kill me now.
Selena Gomez Am not familiar.
Jackie Chan Well, he can kick things.
Pawn Stars Poop.
Knitting Super lame.
Glee Super wicked lame.
Tyler Perry Not funny.
System of a Down Not music.
Two and a Half Men Feel bad for people who watch this.
Twilight Not a chance.
Titanic Longest 6 hours of my life.
Sponge Bob I don't get high.
Avril Lavigne Canada is super clean, which is why Avril lives in the US now.
Ashley Tisdale Nope.
Vanessa Hudgins Not talented.
Converse Eh, they can be comfy, but I can't pull it off.
Grey's Anatomy Never.
Farmville Sheep Not Farmville, just the sheep.
Vice Ganda ??????????
And everyone's fave, Justin Bieber I do not have Bieber Fever. I am perfectly healthy.

Perhaps you can see where I'm coming from. I have no desire to add more crap like this for the next 27 days. It's exhausting, and takes away the actual fun of communicating with friends, and turns the one hour into a chore. And I don't "like" chores for a reason. I'm a bit surprised that no one has suggested that I "like" chores yet, those of you looking to sabotage this endeavor. I would be perfectly happy to let this go away, and go back to life as it used to be (boring & sad), but if Denzel can finish the race, I pretty much have to. Especially now that I'm wearing the sunglasses. This is now a labor of love. Or a labor of loathe. Hence the Mortal Kombat reference in the title. FINISHHH!!!!!!

And as always, there is no charge for awesomeness...or attractiveness.

rossnation...out.

RNWN

2010-07-21T14:11:00.000-07:00

It has been said, "The fact that no one understands you doesn't mean you're an artist." Clearly, they don't get it.

Two Days Down

2010-07-20T11:16:00.000-07:00

As it turns out, my Facebook project is more ambitious than I thought. This is disturbing only because I don't like to be surprised; I would like to be exactly as ambitious as I set out to be. But Facebook has some tricks up its digital sleeves, and these illusions (AD reference) are what turned my one hour on FB into an extra two hours cleaning up the mess that I made. I may be amending my own rules to keep me from having to unsubscribe from a bunch of crap. Sadly, Facebook told me to win an iPad last night. Ahhh, if it were that simple. By about 2 AM, I had successfully unsubscribed from 5 or 6 text message services, ranging from daily horoscopes to daily PWI* giveaways. I only have one thing left to deal with, and that is the law firm that left a message on my voicemail this morning saying that they will call back tomorrow about my free consultation...and I'm pretty sure I'm not getting an iPad. This is what I signed up for, but I think next time I'll lay out my proposal a little better, and perhaps line up some financial backing, so I don't have to do any real work for the rest of my days. Because that's what the Founding Fathers would want.

So it's quite possible that this project will turn into a rant about FB and internet privacy and what not. I will certainly turn into a rant against my friend Soap for forcing me to "like" her cat, and against Justin Bieber for, you know, being alive. Alas, this will all be worth it, no doubt, because those of you paying attention are crapping yourselves with joy. So yuck it up, folks, I will have my retribution. In monetary form.

So in the words of The Great Panda,
"There is no charge for Awesomeness...or Attractiveness."

rossnation...out.

P.S. If the offer had been "Get a free PWI!", I would've seen that one to the end.

Facebook's Finest?

2010-07-19T00:15:00.000-07:00

I'm trying something new tonight, and I have no idea where it's going to lead. Please, don't be frightened rossnation...; let me take care of that. Simply trust that I would never lead the nation into anything I can't get it out of, for that is a leader's credo.
Tonight was Day 1 of a social experiment that I am calling, "The Facebook Driven Life." Rest assured, I do not plan to make this a lifestyle choice, I am just curious what will happen, and I want all of you to be in on the fun, or disaster, depending on how it plays out. So here are the ground rules that I have laid out for the ross.

Every night for the next 31 days, I will spend one continuous hour on Facebook.
During this hour, I will record what happens with my web cam, and with screenshots from my Facebook homepage.
During this hour, I will do everything, with few exceptions, that my homepage tells me to do. If it tells me to reconnect with someone by writing on their wall, I'm on it. If it tells me to like graffiti because many people who like walking like graffiti, it's on. If it suggests a friend that I have at least one mutual friend with, I'm sending a friend request. I am assuming many of these will get ignored, because of the 40 requests I sent tonight, I don't remember at least half of them.
After the hour is complete, I will return to business as usual, which may or may not involve FB, who knows.
I can make up more ground rules as I need, but if you have a suggestion, I am listening.
I think the ultimate goal is rossnation... becoming the "six degrees" of Facebook, and then we'll be famous. But really, I just hope I don't have to go to rehab after this is done.

Let's do this.

rossnation...out.

Road Trip Much?

2010-07-15T20:47:00.000-07:00

I'm taking my first real vacation tomorrow. To clarify, by vacation I mean I'm leaving town and have no particular plans. I have nine days in a row of paid time off. I'm getting in my car and driving to Boise. I'm going to park my suitcase in my brother's guest room and...nothing. I don't know. This week is so wide open that the only actual appointment I have is for the Treasure Valley Rollergirls. I don't know if this is going to be awesome or just retro, but it doesn't matter, because I'm on vacation. Most of the week I'll probably sit in a coffee shop and abuse the free wifi, maybe buy an iced lattesso every 6 hours or so. Make friends with the barista lady and tip big so they don't throw me out, that kind of thing. Because I'm on vacation. Write two columns a day, because I'm on vacation, and I'll share the love. Or I might not. I'll watch ESPN just like at home, 'cause I'm on vacation. I'll go fishing if I want. I don't want to, but you get the idea. Gonna try to record a podcast with the Alger. Why? Because you deserve it. And because I'm on vacation. I'm gonna overstay my welcome everywhere I can; Boise's gonna wish they never heard of me. And when I get back we'll go out for ice cream, I promise.

Simplify-ification

2010-07-12T21:46:00.001-07:00

The more I think about it, the more I'm intrigued by the idea of simplifying. I'm not thinking large scale yet, I just look around and see all the stuff sitting in my apartment and wonder why I have it. Generously, I might need about 50 percent of what I own, and the rest of it is just, well...stuff.
My dad (Handsome & Humble Hoot) is in the midst of the process of simplifying. I was not a fan at first, because out of nowhere I started getting packages chock-full of my old junk. This seemed counter intuitive, because parents are supposed to hold onto our stuff until we're ready for it. But then I started to realize, the only problem with dad's plan was that he should have started mailing me my crap years ago! (Can I get an amen pops?!)
Part of my current thinking has to do with a selfish desire: I'll have to move sometime in the near future, and it would be wicked awesome if I had less crap that had to go with me. If I could fit everything I owned into a small U-Haul trailer, how sexy would that be?! (Especially for the guys I'll guilt into helping.) Less stuff to pack, less stuff to unpack - or leave in boxes for 3 months - sounds pretty good to me. Especially when I consider the fact that most of that stuff is still in boxes! I've lived here for 9 months.
Beyond the craving to lift less, however, are a couple of deeper thoughts. For instance, there's a good chance that I don't need 5 winter coats (maybe that's just the heat talking.) Come to think of it, where did I get 5 coats?! Perhaps there are others who could use a warm coat. And no one has ever accused me of being fashionable, so we're not talking about Banana Republic here. (THOSE COATS ARE GAUCHE!)
Or how about this one: if our living space is less cluttered with things, why wouldn't our minds? How do you like them kumquats?
But here's my piece de resistance: I've been in a lot of homes as a cable tech, and some of the saddest ones are those of elderly people who have all the knick knacks of their lives saved, and their homes overflow with it. In places like this, I can't help but wonder, "Who will take care of all this stuff when this person dies?" I know that's a super morbid thought, but I can't help it, you wanna fideaboudit? My dad says when he dies he wants to own the clothes on his back and a Bible. And for that I say, Thanks Pops. (But it'd better not be for a long time.)
So in the interest of good journalism (or whatever this is), here's a couple of things I'm gonna try, and I dare you to. I triple dog dare you.

I own over 100 DVDs. And I haven't watched any of them in months. Yard sale much? Get a Netflix account, it's OK.
Coats for Kids. Or Goodwill. Salvation Army, whatever, I have clothes I never wear, and someone else might. If they have no style, that is.
Books. This is easy, and my favorite. A lot of used book stores will take your books and put the money you'd get into a fund for needy seniors. Leave a box of books and forget it. It's a great feeling in a bunch of ways.
Shoes...ahh, forget it.
CD's, papers, PWI's, etc. Digitize everything and save to an external hard drive. I bought a 1 terabyte model for $75. That's way more than most of us need. But keep in mind that PWI's take up a lot of space, depending on the number of little syrup squares.

So there it is, that's how we do in rossnation... Well, we're gonna try. Admit it, you didn't think I'd fit in the waffle reference. So little faith...

rossnation... out

Book 'em, Danno.

2010-07-11T21:38:00.000-07:00

Customer request: Top Ten Summer Reads or, ten books to read at the beach. I thought about this overnight, and came up with a couple of thoughts on the subject. My first thought was, of course, I believe in good customer service. And as we all know, the customer is always right (unless you’ve ever worked in retail.) So I really have no choice but to give you my top ten. My second thought was, “I don’t know if I’ve read enough books.” I have chosen to ignore this, and simply provide ten books that I have either read, or that I might read. Don’t let this concern you, because I’m not the kind of person who will continue reading a book if it sucks. So if you actually take me seriously and pick one of these up, please feel free to put it down if it reads like the Spanish half of a portable waffle iron manual* (you all know I would learn Spanish for that.) My last thought was, “Should I really alienate 90% of my considerable readership by writing something that isn’t interesting?” My only option? Make it interesting. So here’s my best shot at, in no particular order:

rossnation… Must Reads for Summer ‘10

Medium Raw by Anthony Bourdain: This guy is really a TV personality, and he’s not for everyone. But if you like travel and learning goofy things about other cultures, he brings a unique perspective. That being said, he can be pretty foul, so beware. Haven’t read it yet, but I will as soon as I find a way to get it without paying.
The Overton Window by Glenn Beck: Want to read it just because this guy seems like a bag of hot whipped cream, but from what I’ve heard he can write like he’s a member of rossnation… And everyone needs a good political thriller in the summertime. Rumor has it the hardcover addition will also apply your sunscreen (as well it should for $26.)
Innocent by Scott Turow: Turow is the master of the law book*. The sequel to Presumed Innocent. Even The New York Times liked it. Case closed*.
Beach Music by Pat Conroy: This is the first on the list that I’ve read. And I’ve read it about 5 times. I wish I could write like Conroy, and you’ll wish I could too once you’ve read him. This is a beautiful example of descriptive writing, and a sad story that you can’t turn away from. Plus, it has beach in the title. So…take it to the beach with you.
The Facebook Effect by David Kirkpatrick: This looks like a pretty interesting look into the world since FB, and let’s face it*, no one would know this column existed if it weren’t for the Evil Empire. Non-fiction alert.
Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling: I know it’s not new, but if you’re a fan, this is a good re-read for the movie that’s coming this fall. Plus, isn’t it nice to pretend you’re a wizard sometimes? Nobody? Nevermind…
The Sea Runners by Ivan Doig: One of my favorite books, and my dad likes it too, so if you don’t believe me, ask him. And as we all know, everybody loves Dave! Blammy!
 No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy: Or anything by him. McCarthy makes reading interesting again, but you have to pay attention. I wouldn’t bother if you’ve got a short attention
 Poop My Dad Says by Justin Halpern: I’m only gonna read this because I’ve seen some of the “poop” that his dad says, and it seems genuinely funny. I only wish the book was actually called this, because poop is a hilarious word.
 30 is the New Boring by rossnation…: I’m such a huge fan of self promotion. This is the ESPN theory; they’re watching it already, we might as well advertise ourselves. But seriously, this is a must read for the summertime. It’s also the reason that the mobile web was invented, so that you could take rossnation… to the beach with you. And please do, because I doubt I’m gonna see the ocean this year. Send the ross a picture? I promise, I’ll try to make it worth your while to stop by every couple of days.

This one’s for rossnation… follower Matt Curtis. rossnation… out.

[1] For the foreseeable future, I will try to add one reference to the mythical PWI in each column. You’ll want to keep reading just to see if you can spot it. It’s like Where’s Waldo with mediocre Righting (callback).

[2] This is the technical term for the genre.

[3] Law pun.

[4] This one’s a freebie.

Chuck on This...

2010-07-10T15:59:00.000-07:00

Every man needs to be challenged. When I’m left to my own devices, my automatic response is... no response! I don’t think I have the gene that forces me be proactive, to push when there is nothing to push. So I specifically need to be challenged. By something, anything! And for that reason, I type tonight. I have been challenged. My talent, wit, verily even my integrity as a writer has been called into question. I shall respond herein:

There is a tongue twister that has caused some dissension in the ranks of rossnation… “How much wood would a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”

An inane question with no answer, and therefore no value. Yet we ponder this conundrum with every cell in our brain, begging the synapses to fire in a random sequence to give us an answer. An answer that, even if it does exist, does us no good. We won’t be able to develop a new assembly line theory for our furry woodchuck friends (often called the whistle pig.) Our friend the whistle does not even chuck wood, and to his detriment. He eats foods like a squirrel (nuts, seeds, leaves, cable that I then have to fix, etc.) So from the git go, we can establish that this is all a hypothetical exercise.

So in our hypothetical, the woodchuck (or WC) would chuck up to 3 cords of wood per day. This has not been tested; it is simply my educated estimate, based on being the son and grandson of former National Park Service employees. (This is the same argument that gets me into Heaven because my dad is a pastor.) But three cords seems about right, don’t you think? WC’s are hungry little buggers, leading a very active lifestyle. They like to run around and stuff. When (if) I “run around and stuff,” I also get hungry. I’m not a vegetarian, though. I prefer to eat three cords of waffles. (C’mon, you all saw that coming.)

The seeds of dissension being planted in rossnation… do not revolve around the amount of actual chucking being done. Rather, there are those associated with the nation that did not believe the ross could discourse on the subject in an interesting manner. Clearly, this argument has been rebutted if you have read this far. Are pictures of a talking woodchuck cheap? Maybe, but it was harder than I thought to come up with jokes about woodchucks. They’re cute, but they sure aren’t interesting. So instead, riddle me this:

How many waffles would a rosschuck chuck? Now that’s quality writing.

rossnation… out.

rossnation... revealed

2010-07-08T22:50:00.001-07:00

Sooooo….you want to know about rossnation…? Sam Eddy does. Therefore, I have to assume that there are a lot of you out in the interweb that have similar questions. And it’s OK, I promise. There’s no shame in being confused, in wanting to know more about this enigma that is rossnation… After all, you can’t Google rossnation… Well, you can, but you won’t get any real answers. But you get some funny results. Seriously, try it right now. I’m result #3, there’s Rick Ross/Nation of Hip Hop, and the supporters of this guy:

This joke tells itself. But if you have an appropriate caption, feel free to submit it.

But on to the questions. Let me start by saying that in NO way am I as narcissistic as this – or any of my previous entries – would lead you to believe. I am simply a ridiculously charming and disarming man who knows the extent of his awesomeness and isn’t afraid to share that knowledge with the world. (Seriously, though, this is all for fun.)

That being said, let me explain rossnation… To start, it’s spelled all lower case, one word, three periods (ellipsis) to denote aposiopesis. This is not to be confused with apotheosis, which I certainly have no claim to. Why is it spelled in this very specific manner? Because it’s my fake club. I can do whatever I want when I’m typing. It has no basis in real grammar, no mythical beginnings, no crazy back story; I just decided that’s the way it needed to be. And I like the ellipsis; it’s a largely underrated punctuation.

While I’m in confession mode, here’s another shocker: rossnation… isn’t a real nation. You won’t find it in the Britannica, but I’m pretty sure the KGB has a sizeable file on us. Think of rossnation… as a co-op. Not one of those hippy co-ops, because I can’t condone spending eight dollars on a pear, organic or not. (Fun family outing: take the kids down to your local co-op and let them count the Subaru’s. Guaranteed 50% of the cars. Because hippies will swear that Sube’s are four-wheel drive.) But rossnation… is more like a co-op of minds. Granted, I as “ross” will be the chairman of the co-op board, but I’ll certainly take suggestions. But, simply put, my vote counts as two. Being a co-op of the minds, rossnation… is a country with borders as wide as your dreams. A little bit like The Matrix, sans the overuse of leather. You do not need a passport, Sam, but your visa must be approved by the ross. Uhh, that’s me, by the way.

Visa approval is based, first and foremost, on Visa approval. (I’m still working on taking AmEx and Discover.) Cash is still a viable option of course, but not preferred simply because I can’t hold cash in my iPhone. That will be a neat trick when they figure that out. Accommodations can be made for the indigent, generally in the form of a properly formatted essay outlining the individual’s qualifications to be a member of rossnation… Please don’t misunderstand, I will most likely not read them. Properly formatted would mean based on the rossnation… Read and Write Right method. Please refer to previous entries for information on the rRWR method. (See how I did that? Forced you to read my older stuff, thus driving up my readership. Brilliant.) Readership is as good as money, just like an IOU.

After the ross has reviewed your application, if you are accepted into the Royal Order of rossnation…, you will receive a notification of some kind, at which point you would be entitled to all the rights and privileges accorded to a full member of rossnation… These include, but are not limited to, the honor of submitting ideas for the ross to write about; submitting writing of your own; listening to any audio or video content that the ross and the jake may produce (this should be good); discounts on any future rossnation… apparel, bumper stickers, key chains, Christmas ornaments, action figures (w00t*), etc.

There are no taxes in rossnation… per se, only a reasonable percentage of the member’s monthly income to be paid to the treasurer of rossnation… Because we have no treasurer as yet, the ross will serve as the acting treasurer. But there are numerous opportunities for advancement within rossnation…; you could become an earl, or a duke, or even a Senator, depending on your personal percentage, and your contributions to the ross’ manifesto.

rossnation… is going places. We’re not sure where yet, but I assure you it does not involve trips to Tijuana. It will definitely be dipping into the important, and thoroughly unimportant, cultural topics of the day, as well as issues that actually may matter to our readers and members.

The ross will be taking most of the topics revolving around being single at 30 and all that it entails. Jake will be discussing fatherhood in the new millennium, and sports. But not soccer or hockey. Those will be my bailiwick. BC, or Soap, will discuss being a Fringle Mom with a real job, and the trips to Tijuana. As a group, rossnation… will delve into the best and worst in entertainment, and my strange and undying respect for Canada and how clean it is. And so much more.

Long term, rossnation… will morph into a real website with a real name, where you can find all of this sweet sauce. One stop shopping, if you’re shopping for new media magic.

But as I’ve said, I am an open minded ross, and will hear all with ideas. Unless they’re ridiculous. Ride along with the revolution, and let’s see where we end up.

rossnation…out

Improving on Faulkner: Stream of Unconsciousness: The Wit and Wisdom of rossnation... As Dictated By Me With No Discernible Purpose and In No Particu

2010-07-07T23:02:00.000-07:00

· If you got past that title, you've already come too far...

· If you don't know what to write, just start typing. Perhaps spell check will do it for you...

· What would I do for a Klondike bar? Pay a reasonable amount of money...

· I'd take out the trash, but I'm not gonna...

· The one appointment you should always make time for is the chiropractor. Having a full wallet will put your back out...

· This life is about emotionality...

· I'm coming back around on Tom Cruise after Tropic Thunder. At least we know he can act. Let the crazy be his own thing...

· I want a snack, and turns out it's gonna be butterscotch chips. I wish they were in cookie form, but alas, I have no eggs...

· Or a baking sheet, to further complicate the baking of cookies...

· Thou shalt not call or text rossnation... after 10 p.m., lest ye get information from me during Ambien time. This can be dangerous for all involved...

· rossnation... is looking for a job in Boise. If you've read this far, you may be very able to help, or completely unable. Talk to rossnation... in words that he can understand.

· Not binary. I am not fluent in binary. My nerddom has a boundary, and the line is the entrance to the gaming store where the 40 year old men play Magic: The Gathering at 2:30 on a Wednesday afternoon. YOU SHALL NOT PASS!!!!

· rossnation... wants your input on topics that need to be covered in this endeavor we're calling journalism. If you've got a question, or a friend has a question, that is in rossnations... wheelhouse, email me and we'll try to help. Relationships, finances, party planning, tech questions? We'll give you the answers, rossnation... style.

· Beautiful men like Joel Stobie apparently only give birth to beautiful daughters. His life is going to be difficult in 15 years. He'll probably go nutty like Sean Schmidt. But Sean might've been nutty before.

· You more shredded than a julienned salad.

· When the Cable Guy goes into a college apartment, there is oft a tense moment (for the tenant, not for me) when the inhabitant must quickly and discreetly remove his/her bong from the coffee table, or the cardboard box that passes for a table, and relocate his "water tobacco pipe" to a less conspicuous location. They usually neglect to move the actual weed, and the smell is...noticeable, shall we say. But for some reason these people are under the impression that I moonlight as an undercover NARC. Ridiculous.

· Or is it?

· Stream of consciousness is harder to write when you're not thinking that hard. This is more like a crick.

· I would like some cookie dough. Wouldn't you...

· Don't read the column; let the column read you...

· This head movie makes my eyes rain...

· rossnation... will retire for the night.

Look forward to hearing from the people, so we don't have to do this nonsense just so I can improve my typing.

rossnation... out.

Welcome to the GART

2010-07-06T20:14:00.000-07:00

There's already plenty of words out there about the Great American Road Trip (GART). It's already been done; Steinbeck, Kerouac, Lewis and Clark...etc. And those guys did a pretty good job, I guess. Their musings and discoveries changed forever the way we view the world we inhabit, and simultaneously created a niche society dedicated to drum circles and hacky sack and the smoking of illegal substances like antimatter. This is all well and good, but there's a much more sociological important road trip that must be undertaken before a boy truly becomes a man. This is all very tribal. Here in 'Merica we have a different pilgrimage that must be undertaken in order to prove ones manhood (or womanhood. But definitely not Robin Hood.)

Not everyone is familiar with this rite of passage (which I suppose is why there are so few real men out there), but it's just as important a part of Americana as spring break, Maker's Mark, and despising Boise State. It's the road trip to Costco, and a defining experience of a life lived under capitalism.

I understand some folks may live within walking distance of Costco. But I would contend that even if you live around the corner, a trip to Costco is still a road trip. You might elect to ignore your car for a quick trip to the grocery store if you lived two blocks away, but you gotta have a car if you're going to Costco, so it's automatically an event. And a uniquely American event, for numerous reasons, but here are a few of my favorites.

Let's start with trying to explain this concrete monstrosity to a foreigner. I think that exchange might go something like this:

(This will be best with an Indian accent.)

Foreigner: "Vot is dis place?"

Me: "We buy stuff in bulk here."

F: "Vy vould you do dat?"

Me: "I have a ton of space that I need to fill."

See what I mean? Try thinking of why we shop at Costco. All told, is it really that much cheaper to buy your cereal in a 55 gallon drum? Personally, I think it's more about the novelty of savings. For example, I like the idea of buying razor blades in bulk. The theory is that I'll save, I don't know, a dollar on each blade. This is tempting too because razor blades are more expensive than mp3 players these days, and so I can save 20 dollars if I buy a year's supply up front. Unfortunately, there's absolutely NO chance that I'll be able to keep track of them, never use all of them. I'll use perhaps 5 and lose the rest next time I move, and now I've just paid $22 per blade. This is expensive. The same principles apply to the cereal. It's stale by the next day.

My closest Costco is in Clarkston, Washington, which is a healthy 30 minute drive away, making my trip a "for-real" undertaking. I've got to really want it. And this is true for a 50 mile radius around the store, which makes it all the more awesome when the parking lot is standing room only at 8:30 on a Tuesday morning. If it were open 24 hours, there would be folks buying tires at 3 a.m. White trash or wealthy, we all love Costco.

(I love that you can buy tires! And right next to the tires is the beer. Or Mike's Hard Cranberry if you prefer. I do not.)

So we walk through the garage door entrance, underneath the perpetually luke-warm hair dryer/air conditioner/heater thing, into a bonanza of Crap-by-the-Crate. Jeans are sold in a four-pack. You can buy a treadmill, but only if you want two. Brita filters by the dozen. Cake mix by the pallet. Whole sides of beef. Books? Yep. Those you can buy in singles. Oh, and sushi. Insert confusion here.

But come with your 401k PIN, cause you can't get out of that place for under 500 bones. And that's because everything costs 16 bucks. Maybe that's just me, but seriously it seems like everything is $16 and up. Except for the chicken bake at the "cafe." It's the only restaurant in the world that can get away with selling only polish sausages and hot pockets.

So what is it that really makes Costco so magical? You already know the answer.

It's the samples. This is why Costco is the end of every truly great road trip. Free food on a toothpick, and then you walk away. No kidding, I've driven all the way there and walked out with nothing but a half-full stomach. And trash bags. And toilet paper. And balsamic vinegar. And Bisquick. A humidor. Pajamas. 30 foot American flag. Recliner. Tree house...

So what can’t you buy at Costco? Portable waffle iron.

Forget all that good stuff. What a worthless store.

Crazy Sweet Sauce

2010-07-03T20:39:00.000-07:00

The future is now! It's not exactly The Jetson's; we're not talking about flying cars and tricorders and portable waffle irons, but it's still pretty flippin' sweet. Here's a non-comprehensive list of the things that I've done today on my phone. That's right, iPhone only.

1. Checked my Facebook. Remember when you needed a computer to do that? It was like three weeks ago.

2. Listened to the Foo Fighters. This used to require a Walkman. Those were awesome. Hard to believe that we had to flip tapes over. B-sides are just a figure of speech now.

3. Scheduled a hair cut. Could've done it over video chat, but I think that would have been more difficult.

4. Took a picture, and edited it without ever standing in line at a photohut. Although I worked at a photo store for 6 years, so this makes me a bit nostalgic for the days of film.

5. Searched for a dog. Found one that I love. He's in Seattle. Never made a phone call. Realized that I'm torturing myself because I'm not allowed to have a dog in my apartment. Put this off till later.

6. Transferred a movie trailer from my phone to my PC. The very idea that we can have a movie trailer on our phone is just stupid. Oh, and it's in Hi-Def.

7. Downloaded and started reading a book. No paper involved. This is not as awesome. I miss the smell of library books. The smell of old paper and the most boring job I ever had. (Boring story furnished upon request.)

8. Created a custom iPhone case. It's awesome, it has a picture of Clive Owen on it...

9. Transferred money from my checking account to savings. No bank teller required, and we all know that's good!

10. Played Monopoly against the computer, and played Scrabble against a friend. He lives in Nashville, and there's none of those ridiculous little tiles to lose or get stuck in your ear canal.

11. Added a movie to my Netflix queue. Again, the very idea that I can watch a movie without playing a movie is David Copperfield level magic.

12. Watched Family Guy clips. They're funny.

13. Listened to the Billboard Top 100 from 1997. I had forgotten about Savage Garden. Wish I could reforget. And it's 13 years, and I'm STILL Not a Playa.

14. Searched for an apartment in two different cities. And you can narrow it down only apartments that have AC, a pool, hardwood floors, vaulted ceilings, and park views. Not that anyone would want to live in such a place.

15. Listened to the police scanner. Not a ton going on in Moscow on Saturday of a three day weekend at 2 in the afternoon in the middle of the summer. (A lot going on in that sentence, however.)

16. Typed out this entire column. And by column, I mean glorified list. But seriously, did the whole thing on my iPhone. I'm a big kid now.

So is this the brave new world? I'm not really sure. There's a lot to be said for going to the humane society and actually playing with the dogs, or playing a board game on a board, or talking to a friend on the phone (or God forbid in person), or getting arrested. There's a simplicity and depth to all these things that just can't be topped.

On the other hand, look how shiny!!!!

Back to the Drawing Board

2010-07-02T20:43:00.000-07:00

It turns out there’s a point at which every person runs out of ideas. Some lucky few are gifted enough (or crazy enough) to hit that wall late in life, after they’ve spit out hundreds of proverbial lightbulbs. Think Ron Popeil, whose mind is apparently just a big kitchen supply store with a few assorted neurons that fire to make his mouth move. Being the world’s preeminent infomercial salesman is a dubious honor, perhaps, but it must have been pretty amazing to spend his days with non-stop kitchen genius spewing from that electrical storm. Or it might have been misery. My gut tells me that having that kind of hypervigilance, never being able to turn it off, would probably make for some tough times, the least of which would be an extreme case of insomnia. I mean, I’ve got things on my mind far less profitable than the table-top rotisserie, and I still can’t sleep sometimes. It’s only fair that I should have a dream in which the Archangel appears and shows me how to make a waffle iron that can plug into the lighter in your car, or more specifically, my Time Warner van. This is actually how I plan to make my mark on the world (nay, the universe), as the cable guy who will make you breakfast for any of the three meals, and elevensies (hobbit reference). This of course is included with the price of your install.

But even Ron must have woken up one morning, sat down at his work bench (drawing board, hence the title), and listened as his brain said, “Not today. No more inventions for you. I’m tired.” And I know how he feels, because I just hit that wall. Yup, this is a column about writer’s block. I’ve been trying for two days to think of something to write about, to no avail. So I did what any rational person would do, and confronted the problem head on. That’s why you may find yourself reading this and thinking how little sense it makes. Sadly, this is your fault. I’m not one to lay blame, but if you these paragraphs seem disjointed to you, it is simply because you are not reading correctly.

But I can help, with my new Reading Right series! For only 5 easy payments of $24.18, I can learn you how to read good! The Reading Right series is based on the revolutionary process of rossnation…ism, in which I take your money, obviously not in personal check form, and continue to write nonsense like this, which you read and forward to your friends and coworkers. They will promptly delete it, or ignore completely, and respond asking you to quit forwarding spam. But then later at the water cooler, you will tell them that all about how you are learning to read right, and they will understand. Reading Right has already been responsible for over 4 lost hours of workplace productivity! And you can be a part of the Reading Right Revolution!

But wait! If you respond in the next fifteen minutes (because we can’t do this all day!), you’ll also be enrolled in the rossnation… Writing Right workshop at the Spokane Airport Ramada Inn! You’ll spend 14 hours with rossnation…’s crack writing team, learning the skills you’ll need to open your own rossnation… franchise! Are you tired of answering to someone else at work? rossnation… Writing Right can help you become the master of your fate, AND teach you how to teach your children how to read and write right! All this for 5 non-refundable, but still easy, payments of $24.18 (+S&H).

HOLD ON! You’ll also receive your very own rossnation… email address! Be the envy of all your friends when you tell them to email you at YOURNAME@rossnation.30isthenewboring.blogspot.com/emailserver/! You’re guaranteed to get that new job when your resume boasts a rossnation… email address!*

Just listen to some of our semi-satisfied customers:

“I had writer’s block, and then I gave this guy some money!” Chuck in Cuyahoga Falls

“All I had the energy to do was watch The X-Files. But now because of rossnation…’s Reading Right, my computer has a virus and Netflix doesn’t work!” Matilda in Michigan City

“You’re not going to quote me, are you?” Jake in Boise

So are you tired of writer’s block?! So was I, but Reading Right and Writing Right changed all that, and it can do it for you too! Are you ready for the revolution?! Then Skype us now! You won’t regret it. (You might.)

*This guarantee is not guaranteed.

iUpgraded

2010-06-29T11:16:00.000-07:00

rossnation... coming to you live from a brand new iPhone 4. Forget about any new features of this bad boy. This baby's got an Evinrude!

rossnation... out.

RNWN

2010-06-28T22:08:00.000-07:00

Overheard*

"Don't try to out-nerd me. I was a drum major for two years. I went to drum major camp!"

The updated version? "Don't try to out-nerd me. I'm parked in front of AT&T on a Monday night to buy a new iPhone at 7 A.M.! I'm the first one in line."

*By overheard, I mean that I typed those words. Don't worry about it.

Bitter Taste Be Gone

2010-06-26T20:38:00.000-07:00

For every reaction, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Some of you may be familiar with this, the ninth law of planetary motion.* Turns out this is just as true when talking about sports as with physics. A day of sport as the best we have to offer (think waffles) is IMMEDIATELY followed by a day of sport as filth (tofu). And that’s how it has to be.

One day after Landon and the Ace Makers gave us a sports high for the ages, I was harshly reminded that man is ultimately sinful, and rarely at his best. Sadly I was reminded of this when I read the recap of a baseball game. My beloved Texas Rangers, whom I have been enamored with as long as I have been able to hold a baseball, had their 10-game winning streak cracked by the Houston Astros, losing 7 to 4 at home. This is hard for me in many ways, not least of which being that a winning streak for the Rangers has always seemed to max out at about 3 games. The Rangers have a .608 winning percentage right now; for those who don’t care, that’s like being a waitress and getting tipped 40 percent on every check. It just doesn’t happen. So right now being a Rangers fan is a pretty sweet gig, even though technically the team is being run by Major League Baseball, just like the old Expos (I’m gonna name my first kid Expo, regardless of sex.)

But the losses I can handle. I have been vaccinated against it. I’m a Vandal, after all. What I have a harder time stomaching is what the Rangers, and the fans in attendance, did in the process of getting worked over. After 2^nd baseman Ian Kinsler struck out looking in the third inning, he was ejected after showing his frustration with the call by home plate umpire Eric Cooper. It may have been a marginal call, and Kinsler might not have deserved to be thrown out of the game. Umpiring is about the most subjective occupation on the planet, right after being a columnist. But baseball’s great tradition is that no matter what, the umpire is right, has to be, or the game falls apart. And I agree with this wholeheartedly, ever since I spent summers in high school working little league games in Idaho Falls, which is a great job if you like getting yelled at by angry parents for 15 bucks a night (and I do).

Regardless, players strike out, they get thrown out of games. Deal with it Ian. But the fans were what really got my ire up, when in the 9^th inning, they cheered after Cooper the Ump was hit in the face by an errant fastball. An accident, a miscommunication between pitcher and catcher, sent the ball into his facemask at close to 100 miles an hour, and while Cooper was kneeling on the ground trying to regain his composure, the fans in Texas cheered. If Lando and the Ace Makers is the chocolate, this is the pretzel underneath (because chocolate covered pretzels are gross.) Applauding a hurt man, who is not even competing, is the worst kind of ugly, made worse because everything’s bigger in Texas. And for me it almost counteracted the elation of Landon’s goal. For a moment, I wished I wasn’t a Rangers fan.

I hope today’s win was the start of a new streak. I hope that Landon Donovan isn’t old and broken down when the 2014 World Cup rolls around, and he can captain one more team. I hope that team figures out how to avoid allowing goals in the first ten minutes. I hope Ghana quits stalling and flopping. I hope the Cowboys win the NFC East. I hope Boise State loses early and often. But when it comes to sport, I hope most of all for more chocolate than pretzel.

rossnation...out

* joke

This One's for Matt, and Lando.

2010-06-24T19:45:00.000-07:00

A couple of amazing things happened yesterday, both in a world that I am in love with, and yet completely unsuited for. And it is not Narnia; that is a column for another time. Neither is it the magical and delicious world of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory - the original, not the frightening and depressing remake - which I found so fascinating and cavity-inducing as a child. Still, on any given watch I do not know whether I am petrified or delighted by Gene Wilder's crazy portrayal. This world is a safe haven, a place to forget one's hurt and anger, to be free for two to four hours. It's the world of sport, and yesterday, the world of sport got an infusion of beauty akin to a chemical peel for an aging woman (or supremely vain man, suppose.)

It's rare on any day to see an epic sporting moment, and two in a day is like having twins. (Writer's license, I don't know this firsthand.) Landon Donovan's game winning goal in injury time against Algeria was the minutes-older child, followed by the younger twin (John Isner v. Nicolas Mahut) who doesn't want to be born, and therefore takes 5 sets, 11 hours, and over 200 aces to finish. Don't be fooled; no one would ever accuse me of being a soccer or tennis fan. I have passing understanding of the rules, coupled with great respect for the athletic prowess of those who seek to perfect the games, but I can't be passionate about them...unless June 23 happens.

I was working during USA/Algeria, installing TV and Internet, and ironically was unable to see a single moment of the game. It was on ESPN AND ESPN3.com, but never when I plugged in one of many TVs or computers. I was following on my iPhone. (Sadly, iPhone might be my Narnia. Callback!) And I had given up hope, just like so many others. All I saw was one update after another about a US player missing wide or being denied by the goalpost, and even I as a VERY casual soccer watcher know that goals are hard to come by in the waning minutes of a match. And then like lightning, my phone refreshed and displayed one word, the battle cry of every sports nut in the world: GOAL!

For ninety one minutes the men of US Soccer - almost all of whom are younger than I - threw everything they had at the men of Algeria, and they were denied. Punch for punch, shiner for shiner, and I LOVE that! Even I can get behind soccer when it's played with that kind of urgency and abandon. Plus, soccer is finally watchable because of hi-def. Our guys needed a goal, and they fought tooth and toe to get it. Sadly, if My Boy Lando hadn't been there for the easy rebound with 3 minutes left in the match, the rules of soccer would've made us go home with a draw. Can you imagine?! You don't get to play anymore, cause you tied. You didn't lose, but you still lose. Huh?

But Lando didn't miss, and thank heavens! Missing from there would have put him in the top 3 all-time goats, along with Bill Buckner and Billy. And so now we know the precise difference between failure and triumph: 8 yards.

It's almost a shame that the brawl that was Isner versus Mahut had to happen on the same day. Sure, technically the match ended today, but the real magic happened in the first 5 hours of the fifth set. How ridiculous is that sentence, on a scale of 1 to nutball? I'm exhausted from all this typing, and these guys went at it for FIVE HOURS, after they had gone at it for five hours! Even the guys at Nike were shaking their heads, saying things like, "Those shoes should be broken in by now," and "It's gonna cost us a fortune to get these guys to wear our shoes now. Good thing we gots the dollah's. Hollah!" That's how the people at Nike talk.

Towards the end, they were so tired they barely even tried to return serve. Anything less than a sure thing wasn't worth the energy. It's hard to fathom that kind of commitment, and that I why I love sports. In the end, they were too tired to celebrate a win or mourn a loss. They had pushed to the brink and finished.

Why do I love sports? Because even though I don't really get soccer, or love tennis, I see the practitioners do something great, like Lando and the Ace Makers, and it gives me hope. Hope that at some point I will be pushed to the edge, and I will push back. And even if I can't win, I'll make sure that I'm so exhausted from the fight that when I get laid down, I'll be so tired that I won't care. That's how the righteous sleep.

In Search of the American Dream

2010-06-19T20:09:00.000-07:00

Nothing I love more than a misleading title. I'll bet you thought this was going to be a monumental essay on the American experience, because that's what you've come to expect from the New Yorker and this column. (See how I called it a column instead of a blog? I'm allowed to lend myself credibility, right?)

That's not what this is about, however. This is about my American Dream, and it's very simple. It's the search for the perfect non sequitur. I'm a huge fan. If I were a girl, the non sequitur would be my Jonas Brothers. I think. I don't really understand girls. Jake, back me up on this one.

See, that last line? Probably two people in the world got that. It's perfect. Well, not quite, cause even those two realize it's not funny. But you get the idea. It's comedic palladium for those of us who either don't think about what we're saying or aren't funny. And I'm a little bit of both. It's the only reason I can get away with making a "joke" about the periodic table.

The rossnation Dream is the guy who gets to write for 30 Rock, with which I am quickly falling in love. About twice an episode these guys insert a PA voice over like, "Jenna, Ghost Face Killah, and Yo Yo Ma to the stage for 'Muffin Top.'" Or, "Tracy to the stage, please, for 'Pull Your Own Wisdom Teeth.'" The greatest job ever. Making up nonsense for money. That's the Dream. There's probably other elements to it, but we haven't quite hammered this theory out. (I...the Royal We, the editorial...)

And that's why I'm doing this on a Saturday night. In a way, I'm perfecting the American Dream, if you think about it. Never mind, let me worry about it. This is a job for a columnist. Or me. I'll let you know when I get it right...if you know what I mean.

rossnation...out.

I'm On The Fence About Twitter

2010-06-19T00:39:00.000-07:00

So follow rossnation... on twitter! Don't be fooled by imitation rossnations, there can be only one!

@irossnation

rossnation...out

Who's My Doppelganger

2010-06-16T22:16:00.000-07:00

Really interesting discovery tonight: my alter ego character on Lost is Jack. I know, right? I thought it would definitely be Hurley, or Charlie, because of the obvious physical and vocal similarities. But it turns out that Jack and I kindred spirits, in addition to both being inconceivably handsome, well read, and grizzled. We have way too much in common for my comfort.

Number one, he's a doctor. I took some premed courses.
Number B, he's addicted to Oxycontin. I took one once and didn't wake up for nearly a day.
Letter 3, Jack is a natural leader. I am Au natural.
Quatro, Jack has saved lives. I have saved movie ticket stubs.
Cinco, Jack has his pick of the women on the island. Ummmm....never mind.
6, Jack is awesome. I am also OK.
7, Jack is tall, fit, and strong jawed. I am none of those things, but I can spell them.
8, Jack is broken. We are all broken.

So heretofore, Jack Shepherd is inducted into the Royal Order of rossnation..., and shall be referred to henceforth as Sir Jack of rossnation..., and shall be entitled to all rights and privileges given to members.

All those interested in becoming a Knight of the Royal Order of rossnation... (formerly known as the Rad Dood Gang) should submit their qualifications, along with a non-refundable application fee, consideration to be given to those who can make a reasonable claim to the honor. I HAVE SPOKEN!

rossnation... out

RNWN

2010-06-16T20:06:00.000-07:00

I know it's tempting, but you don't REALLY want a rossnation... tattoo. That's just the syrup talking.

I Am The Walrus

2010-06-15T20:36:00.000-07:00

I present to you, my adoring and misguided fans, my favourite song lyrics, in no particular order. (Yep, spelled it the British way. That's how I do's it.)

I felt like this on my way home, I'm not scared. I pass the boats and the Kingdome! I'm not scared! New Way Home; Foo Fighters Can it get better than a reference to a bygone ballpark? I submit that it cannot!
Oh, I'm a lucky man, to count on both hands the ones I love. Just Breathe; Pearl Jam Is it just me, or are these guys getting better with age? Extreme age.
In a clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade, and he carries the reminders, of every glove that laid him down or cut him til he cried out, in his anger and his shame, I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains. The Boxer; Simon & Garfunkel First off, this song has the greatest drumbeat in the history of drumbeats. And second, I love me some Simon. Garfunkel I could do without, but I think that's pretty much how it's gone for that guy.
Or my name's not Kroc, that's Kroc with a 'k'. Like crocodile but not spelt that way. Boom, Like that; Mark Knopfler Dude wrote a song about McDonalds. Genius, with a capital K.
Hey, Dad, what do you think about your son now? Oh, hey, Dad, what do you think about your son now? Take a Picture; Filter I love this, cause the guy doesn't even try to make it subtle. This lyric comes out of nowhere, doesn't have anything to do with the rest of the song, and he just SCREAMS it! This guy has some father issues (don't worry, Pops, we're good. smiley emoticon.)
I'm pushin' an elephant up the stairs, I'm tossin' out punchlines that were never there. Over my shoulder a piano falls, crashing to the ground. The Great Beyond; REM Wait...what? It's like Michael Stipe was writing a rossnation-style blog and made it into a song. I'm gonna be rich; just gotta learn how to write music and dance spastically.

That's a good start. Feel free to submit your favorite lyrics, and I'll try to make clever comments about them. But it'll probably just be sad. Single tear...

rossnation...out

P.S. Single Tear, name of my second album. Haven't named the first one yet.

Point-Counterpoint

2010-06-14T22:32:00.000-07:00

This is a direct rebuttal of falsitudes promulgated by one Jacob Alger, a man I respect and admire, but who has completely lost his faculties. (Perhaps they're on strike.) Mr. Alger, while making many salient points in his most recent post,

http://fatherbest.blogspot.com/2010/06/every-sport-has-its-thorn.html

also opted to make a bold and ridiculous statement about the greatest sport on skates. OK, fine, hockey is the only sport on skates. And don't run at me with stuff like, "What about figure skating or ice dancing?!", cause I'll not honor that with a response. And thus, ice hockey holds its own category, like a car that has no class to be compared with. Ice hockey is the greatest sport in the New World, and herein are outlined the indisputable reasons. Take notes, Mr. Alger, and begin preparing your retraction.

I grew up in Alaska (sort of) and I should know how to skate. But I do not. And I wish I could, because I wanted to be the kind of athlete that can do what Nicklas Lidstrom does, even at 40 years old. He can move on two razor sharp blades and a sheet of frozen water with more grace and precision than I can on two feet. Just watching him skate causes me to fall down sometimes. By the way, this is why I don't hate The Cutting Edge. D.B. Sweeney's finest work. Anybody think that LeBron could do this?

With the advent of hi-def, we can put to bed the argument that hockey is hard to watch on TV because you can't see the puck, etc. HD has turned tv hockey into Lady GaGa on ice, a glittering extravaganza of hip checks and icing calls. And because of the speed of the game, the aggression of the players, and the shine of the ice, hockey is more fun to watch on TV than any other sport. And it's not bad to watch in person either.

Hockey is the ultimate gentleman's sport. These men beat the snot out of each other for 60 minutes, and then they line up and shake hands. Unreal.

Coolest thing I ever saw on TV: Chris Osgood and Patrick Roy squaring off at center ice in the '98 playoffs. Osgood was much smaller and still took Roy down after delivering numerous solid shots. I've never heard a crowd that raucous. And I'll bet they still shook hands.

Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, compares to the tension of a playoff hockey game in overtime! Sudden death indeed! No coin flips here.

At Red Wings games, they throw octopi onto the ice when the Wings score. You can't tell me that's not the greatest tradition ever.

And finally, there's always a better than average chance that the person who sings the Star Spangled Banner might fall down.

Beat that with a hockey stick, Jake. Now take it back.

Don't Really Know Where This Came From

2010-06-13T02:02:00.000-07:00

For sadness ever takes shape like this,

All jagged edges and broken,

A diamond swallowed unwilling and

Cutting the stomach with no precision.

It slices at the softest parts,

Knows the pieces that will bleed,

And the nerves that wake easiest.

Soon the ulcer becomes cancerous,

Growing slowly because you don’t know.

Doctor’s all say the same,

It is just heartbreak,

And will pass with time.

But time heals only the superficial,

And steals away with the thought of true cure.

Tumor advances, wrapping around the soul,

And squeezing so the anger begins to ooze out,

Moving ever closer to the surface,

Waiting for a breath of air to suck in and use for voice.

But what will it scream, what will anger speak to the world?

It has waited too long, it is septic, and now it will utter,

Whatever the sadness of the heart bids.

The Sadness speaks to the Anger, and says this or that,

These are the words you will utter.

And the Anger knows to wait longer still,

Running his lines to master them, set to deliver

A great oration of razor sharp pain.

Angers masterpiece will send pain throughout the amazed audience,

Nessun Dorma writ of hurt and insult, darker but no less beautiful.

And then Anger sins, and sings his opus of ugliness,

Piercing all around with his hate.

Some ingest it, and are infected, while some run.

And the others will stop Him, but it is too late.

The One anger intended to hurt, she is destroyed,

And will never repent or forgive now.

The wreckage has been laid out, and now sadness starts new

In another.

But if instead sadness would scream to the Heavens,

Screech at the Lord Almighty to offer counsel,

Perhaps HE would answer with wisdom.

Would Wisdom tell sadness the proper action…

Sadness in turn might fade to something less, and be removed entire.

Letterman's Been Lazy

2010-06-10T21:22:00.000-07:00

This one's for you, Jake.

I present the Top Ten Top Ten's that I want to see:

10) Top Ten Lost Moments That Don't Make Sense

The sheer volume to choose from is what intrigues me. 4 seasons left and I can probably name fifty.

9) Top Ten Bald Actors

If Telly Savalas isn't number one, I'll be very disappointed.

8) Top Ten Ugliest Athletes Ever

Plenty to choose from, but Popeye Jones is a solid candidate, and just because I can, Ian Johnson's on there. I hate that guy.

7) Top Ten Fish

Shrug -- I like fish.

6) Top Ten Waffle Toppings

You're all hungry now, aren't you? Well, both of you anyway. But I'm casting my vote for syrup. But not lite syrup. Side note, why is it always spelled that way when referencing food? Mispelling is not OK.

5) Top Ten Axe Scents

No, there is nothing random about this list. This is legitimate. Has anyone noticed that there's like 35 different scents?! I'm not a "Double-pits-to-chesty" guy, but this has gone too far.

4) Top Ten Boat Movies

This is just to see if you can think of another one besides Captain Ron...or at least one that matters.

3) Top Ten TV Shows That Aren't Perfect Strangers

After all, what's the point?

2) Top Ten Worst Emoticons

They're all stupid. Get it?

And the coop Dee grass, as Grandpa would say,

1) Top Ten Deadly Sins

rossnation out. (yes, rossnation is now one word, all lower case.)

Panic! @ the Disco?

2010-06-10T19:59:00.000-07:00

There is that singular moment we experience -- rarely if we are blessed -- that is like a lightning bolt striking in the heart. It is that split second right before the car changes lanes into you, the blip right after you miss a step, when from nowhere your heart races to the edge of insanity. You can't believe that it isn't coming apart inside of you. For me, it is the most horrendous feeling, because it speaks of danger, and worse, the kind of danger that cannot be contained. It is a whisper that wakes the dead.

This is what happens to me when I slowly open my eyes for no discernible reason, roll to the side, look at my phone, and realize that I am supposed to be at work in 2 minutes. This is what happened today. 7:58. NO! My alarm didn't go off, because I had left it on vibrate. The panic that came over me sent thoughts of all crazy kinds through my head. You'll be fired. Don't be ridiculous, you'll just get written up. Stop, it's never happened before, they'll tell you to be more careful. As my heart rate slows, my thoughts return to earth. I call, explain the problem, tell them I'm on the way. The adrenaline breaks, and I can feel my chest again, and I know that everything is OK, and I don't have to worry about my heart exploding...

And then I dropped my iPhone in the toilet.

RNWN

2010-06-07T21:20:00.000-07:00

I want to write a screenplay about a man who becomes disenchanted with the world and the way that technology has taken over his life, so he decides to follow in Thoreau's footsteps and go live at Walden Pond...and blog about it.

Lost...and Loving It!

2010-06-06T16:46:00.000-07:00

I knew this would happen. It was meant to be. Like Ken Griffey, Jr. returning to the Mariners for one final nap. Or the Cowboys imploding in the playoffs. Or waffles and peanut butter. And because I knew that it was inevitable, I avoided it for as long as I could, trying to pretend that I had some control over my life. "I won't let it happen to me," I said. "I am the master of my destiny."

But deep down, I knew better. So I made a compromise; I decided that I wouldn't watch a single second of Lost until the series was over, and then I would watch the pilot and see what happened. Deep in my bones I knew that Lost would be an addiction akin to Dr. Pepper for me, and it had to be on my terms.

And I was right, and it worked.

One week after the series finale of Lost I got season 1, disc 1 from Netflix. That was May 31st. It's been less than a week, and I can't stop. I've watched 30 episodes in 6 days. I'm going to bed way too late. I'm drinking too much caffeine. I'm tired. But this isn't over until It's over. (That's what she said.) Non sequitur alert.

And so here's some bullet point (shoutout) quickies so far, from a newborn perspective...and in no particular order.

I'm in love with Maggie Grace. Let's just get that out of the way. I was quite disappointed by her untimely demise on the show. I also hope she has a great personality. If wishes were dreams and so on...
There's an awful lot of subtitles to read, which I think they did on purpose so you'd have to pay attention. But it takes it out of me.
This island is massive.
I really disagree with the casting of Michelle Rodriguez...in anything.
I realize that the writers must have been under the gun to figure out where to take the storyline, but it seems extraordinarily haphazard to me. And somehow I don't care. Why?
Talk about typecasting, what's up with Sayid? I'm pretty sure he's Indian.
Hurley is awesome.
Kate apparently has superhuman strength, and can beat the crap out of any guy. She must have broken the FBI agent's jaw 6 times by now.
Think it's coincidence that the ugly people don't really get their own story lines? And don't say, "What about Hurley?"! Do not.
This is why the iPhone was invented, to prevent anarchy like on this show.

Anyway, let's hope this all wraps up nice and tidy, 'cause when I'm finished with this marathon I'm betting I'm gonna need to let my noggin rest. I just hope that this crazy obsession isn't what's fueling my recent creativity. I'd hate to be boring again...

Postcard from the Edge

Steve Jobs is delivering his keynote address at the Worldwide Developer's Conference at 10 A.M. tomorrow. And I'm gonna watch. Because I want to see the new iPhone. And then I want him to tell me when I can buy one. And then I'm gonna buy one. Cause I'm a nerd.

Ross Nation out.

Postcard from the Edge

2010-06-05T23:53:00.001-07:00

Disappointment today, because some other loser already owns rossnation.com. Poop.

So Much to Say

2010-06-05T22:30:00.000-07:00

We'll start this off slow with an update on the Great Shower Curtain Liner Saga of 2010: anticlimax, because it appears to have been resolved. The new $10 liner seems to be everything it was marketed as; a heavy piece of plastic (and supposedly mildew resistant). My shower today was free of the annoying flutter of the old, inferior liner flapping up against my leg. Now I don't have to aim the showerhead at the curtain to keep it at bay. Sweet, sweet relief.

On to heavier issues. Jake the Snake Alger has posed a query with potential for all kinds of fantastic (read, mediocre) comedy. The question is what TV shows and movies qualify for us personally as comfort watching; something that you can put on in the background and just let it be noise. Being the thinker that I am, however, I also must define the other types of film and TV. There's the kind that if I'm watching, I get sucked in automatically, and any chance at completing other tasks is a retarded folly. Case in point, Arrested Development. As soon as I here Gob say something stupid, I'll watch a whole season before I realize my pie is burning in the oven. (Yes, I bake pies.)

Then there's the movie or show that I have to watch all the way through because if I don't, I have no idea what's going on. The Index Case for this type is my new addiction, Lost. I haven't done anything productive in over a week now, and it's getting to be an issue. I have to force myself to stop the netflix and wash my sheets (today) or change the shower curtain (today) or clean the kitchen (well, later.)

But the perfect comfort media for me is a special breed, like a bassett hound or Phil Roland. When I've got things to do, like cleaning the apartment, folding laundry, making my bed, baking a pie, pilates, etc., my background picture and sound looks something like this:

1) Sadly, National Treasure. I've seen this abomination so many times that I no longer even care if the good guys win. Perfect for going to sleep.

2) The Hunt for Red October. Every line by rote, if you like (although most people don't like.) Only pause necessary is for the obligatory aping of Alec Baldwin as he says in a Sean Connery voice, "Ryan, some things in here don't react well to bullets. Yeah, like me. I don't react well to bullets." Freekin' brilliant.

3) Any Law and Order. They all end the same, but I love them anyway.

4) Sportscenter is a special category, because I have to watch the first run of the day, but after they've shown the same show six times, you're a world-beater with this white noise in the background.

5) If you've got no money, Home Shopping Network is perfect because you can't actually stop what you're doing to buy something.

6) The West Wing: What can I say, I've got a man crush on Rob Lowe, you wanna fight about it?

Movies and shows that are definitely not an option: The Shawshank Redemption, Marley & Me, Mad Men. These suck me right in and I'm useless until it's over. I'm useless other times too, though.

By the way, I'm having this problem right now. This is fifteen minutes worth writing that has taken forty five because I'm watching Lost, when I should have know better and put on Sportscenter. So what have we learned today? That Jake Alger shall now be call Socrates Johnson.

CALLBACK! Send it.

Ross Nation out.

Random Musings

2010-06-05T00:10:00.000-07:00

First, I can't ignore the elephant in my apartment anymore, cause he's trashing the place. It's too damn hot for elephants to just be roamin' around. They should be at the zoo. This elephant's name is Splice, a disturbingly great movie in so many ways.

First of all, yeah, I went and saw Splice on opening night. I request forgiveness for this, seeing as how it was a in the company of a fine lady who also thoroughly enjoyed the film. But I also don't feel I need to offer excuses, cause I'm a grown-ass man (Giuseppi) and am entitled to see whatever flims I choose, regardless of what Roger Ebert thinks. I'm just assuming that Ebert didn't care for it; this flim is not exactly Shawshank.

And as much as I expected to walk into this movie and see a 90 minute glowing turd straight out of the Hollywood turd machine (I think this is located next to the Backdraft ride at Universal), that is exactly what I saw. But it had so many redeeming qualities that I have to say I loved it. First off, classy is right out the window. Can't assign that term to a movie in which both the male and female leads have sex with a half animal/half human splice being, after it transforms from a female to a male. (Honestly, I don't know how this script got approved, or got an Oscar winner to sign on.)

Second, the CGI splicething, Dren, is horribly done. She always looks like a person in a cgi costume, which is a weird effect, and unsettling. That said, it still seems to be the perfect effect for this movie; juuuussssttt a little bit off.

Third, the entire experiment that leads to the end disaster takes place over approximately 3 days, or so it seems, and the whole time the rest of the lab team apparently has no idea that the two leads are creating a supermonster in the other room.

Fourth, the two hero scientists, the brightest of their generation, drive what I believe is a late 70's Dodge Colt. Wait, what?

And last, the sequel(s) are coming, bet the family jewels on it. Or something else valuable. This is the safest investment since LeBron. Meaning, it'll make you money, you just won't win any awards.

My favorite possible titles for the sequels:
1)Splice Twice
2)Splice 2: Spawn of Dren
3)Splice Thrice
4)Splice of Pie
5)I'd be happy to hear more from our readers.

All told, I will watch this movie again, if for no other reason than to see the moment when the "heroine" runs headlong into a treebranch and knocks herself cold, at which point I let out a hearty guffaw that rings through the theatre. Great moment.

May the Splice be with you.

Genetics Are a Funny Thing...but Not Haha Funny

2010-06-03T19:23:00.000-07:00

I don't place a lot of stock in the importance of looks; that would be foolish for a man of dubious physical stature. But there's one thing that I'm proud of when it comes to this sweet piece of man candy (mandy): I'm not balding.

Small victory, you may say, but this is no small thing when you consider the genetic hand I was dealt. Grandpa Bob, mom's dad, the supposed source of all things hair related, is about as shiny-headed as Telly Savalis (awesome), so the chances of me being bald was solid right out of the gate. But I'm 30 years old now, and while this hair is thinning, it is also holding its ground along the forehead. And anyone who was at my brother's wedding last weekend can see that he has not been as lucky; his hairline is receding quicker than a Cancun sunset. (That was a shoutout, I'm aware it was a lame analogy.) But this just goes to prove the old adage: "Dancers are really attracted to bald men." Well, this adage is not that old...

Until recently, the fact that the Angel of Bald passed over my proverbial door was a source of some comfort to me. (By the way, don't look for that in Proverbs. It's not there.) But this morning, I realized what my half of the equation was: I'm going gray...and it's not one or two hairs, it's the better part of my temples! At this rate, it's a matter of about a year before I'm the spitting image of Sean Connery, sans wrinkles. Let's just hope that it's the distinguished salt and pepper kind of gray, not the crazy pinstripe Ted Danson look. (Ross Nation Wisdom Nugget: The show Becker is not at all underrated.)

So apparently I'm aging about as gracefully as Grant Gibson on a dance floor (callback), but we'll keep an eye on things. I think next time I'll have to delve into the deeper issues of life, such as my new and frightening addiction to Lost, the commercial I saw for a new show called Rookie Blue -- Alger, this is our bread and applebutter -- and an update on the Great Shower Curtain Saga of 2010.

Ross Nation shoutout to Brenda Ceja for being a good writer. I can't read most blogs cause they lack punctuation, spelling, and content. The three pillars of mediocre writing. But Brenda is throwing down the gauntlet in this weird threeway blogbloc, and it's up to Jake and myself to bring the thunder, Vandal style.

Until then, Ross Nation out.

Postcards from the Edge

2010-06-01T22:27:00.000-07:00

Occasionally I'll bring some info to this shindig that I'm gonna call either "Postcards from the Edge", or "Ross Nation Wisdom Nuggets." Cause I love irony. And the word nugget. Most of these will be worthless, but they bring a smile to my face, and you know what they say: "A spoonful of nuggets makes the penecillin stronger."

See, there it is, the very first Ross Nation Wisdom Nugget (or RNWN, as they will be referred to when this is wicked viral.

The Postcards from the Edge may be a little bit sadder, since the edge of Boring is pretty lame, let's face it. Something like this:

"The highlight of my day was going to Walmart to refill my ambien prescription and buy the previously discussed shower curtain liner. The sad part? I'm saving the receipt just in case the curtain isn't heavy enough..."

Also, brace yourselves, because this blog is gonna be lowsy with ellipses...

Ross Nation out.

Daily Dose

2010-05-31T21:43:00.000-07:00

The thing I want most in the world today is a heavier shower curtain...