From his seat in Indiana's capital city, Matt discusses politics and pop culture. His hobbies include longing for simpler times, complaining about the government, and shaking his fist at the sky. * K&S is updated on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday.
Tim and I have agreed that I shall be the godfather of his new Beagle, named “Dunston” after my suggestion to give him the moniker of my favorite Chicago Cub (rocket-armed shortstop Shawon Dunston) of all-time. Dunston arrived Sunday afternoon and seemed a little nervous, but eventually fell asleep after touring Tim’s house and yard in Broad Ripple. It’s a pretty nice little situation.
I’m not totally sure what being a godfather entails, but I think it mainly means I’ll be in charge of, um, finding the dog's new owner if Tim dies. Just kidding, as I’m sure I’ll take him in and raise him as I would my own dog. Together, we’ll become the first father/son team to accomplish some feat – I’m just not sure what yet. I’m betting it will involve eating though, as I can eat a freakish amount for my weight and I can train Dunston to expand his stomach like Kobayashi. Look at me, already dreaming of the future.
In the ancient debate of dogs vs. cats, I’m a total dog guy. I won’t get into the theory of why guys are like dogs and women are like cats, mainly because I’m not in the mood to read angry comments from women. However, I will contend that, by and large, dogs tend to be loyal and apt to please others with love - and by sacrificing their own pride - while cats are traditionally self-important and oblivious to the considerations of others. That’s all I’m saying. Also, like men, dogs have the decency to urinate outdoors instead of going in a make-shift gravel pit in somebody’s kitchen. It's simply a matter of courtesy, folks.
I haven't followed this really closely, mainly because I don't care and I can't believe CNN covers this with the fervor that it does, but I saw Lohan's mug all over the TV. So now, is she a whackjob or just a callgirl? I'm trying to catch up here so stay with me.
All things being equal, here's the moral of the story, ladies: If you have red hair - KEEP IT. Red hair - especially auburn - is a gift from God. To me, it's so beautiful. If that was your natural hair color, why would you dip your head in peroxide? Just so you can look like you can't do math? What a waste!
I've had a serious thing for red heads for quite a while and I'm not even ashamed. Be proud ladies, celebrate it, and don't act like some coked-out actress du jour and turn it blonde and echo the latest platitudes of the day like "That's hot" or "Fer sure" or "I'll **** you for $150."
After the recent property tax debacle (although it shouldn't be that suprising if you'd have read a paper in the last 3 years), I'm trying to get my man Ricky to run for city council or some other office. I'd like to be his campaign manager. Mitch will handle the media marketing junk, and maybe Tim could help with fundraising.
Rick does improv for Comedy Sportz and Fun Dumpster downtown so I'm thinking he'd be a great candidate. I would most aptly describe his political affiliation as "angry."
Here's some advice I gave him over e-mail this week:
"I want you to run for city council. However, I plan for you to attend all events in a wizard’s hat, holding a crystal ball and a hairless cat. You’ll also be referring to your volunteers as “my minions." I suppose you could also run for sheriff. Your strength will be that you’re not a law enforcement insider, but you’re well-versed in first-person shooting games.”
Indianapolis, get ready to be turned upside down. All we need is a clever slogan - but that hairless cat can't hurt.
Saturday's Microbrew Festival was officially a blast. Basically, you pay $30 to drink as much beer as you can in four hours. It's sort of a challenge. Granted, some people were there to actually taste the beer, but for most of us, after about number six they all sort of taste the same.
The only problem, aside from the fact that it's outside in July and you're drinking, is that it's such a hodge-podge of different brews. You end up drinking light, dark, porter, stout, I think there was something with blueberry - bottom line: the human stomach doesn't care for it. So, then we went out to a Mexican place in Broad Ripple. Another tremendous decision.
I won't go into details, but I basically had to go Kate Moss on it after all was said and done and gag myself to clear my situation. It worked and I slept rather well, albeit after watching David Beckham's LA Galaxy debut.
And, if you've ever read this blog before, you can bet that after a long day of drinking I got into a disagreement with a random girl in our group regarding why our friend's girlfriend was acting crazy. Basically, she thought she was justified in over-reacting to nothing and walking home, whereas my contention was, "What? Oh my God - you've got to be kidding me. Shut up."
She then informed our friend that he shouldn't take advice from me because I don't have a girlfriend, so then I proclaimed to everyone: "Yeah, I'm a bad guy; I don't have a girlfriend (because that's some sort of meritorious accomplishment). Look at all the joy relationships are bringing to my friends."
Anywaaaaaaay, it was a joyous time and I recommend the festival to anyone interested in beer, and women.
One of the beautiful things about MySpace is that it allows you to look up old friends, enemies, and especially people you've dated. What I find frustrating is when I look up someone I used to date, see photos of their new beau, and their new beau is clearly unattractive (usually fat).
Now, I take this as a slap in the face. Mainly because I felt like I had accomplished something by getting a particular gal to date me. But then, it seems she really has no standards at all - thereby negating my achievements. I might as well have dated a nasty myself. What's the point? Let's face it, the only reason we really date people is to show them off. If we didn't, the world would simply revolve around random hook-ups and friends with benefits.
By dating someone, I have a trophy, so to speak. But when the trophy dates somebody who's sub-par, that trophy is relegated to becoming one of those certificates of participation we used to get in school when we played sports or entered the Science Fair; it's worthless. Am I wrong?
I'm a poker freak, so I've been tuned in to the streaming final table blog of the World Series of Poker. A field of nearly 6,000 has been trimmed down to 9: World Series final table
Mind you, I haven't been reading this from work, since I'm busy doing work things at work... because I'm a model employee.
I don't know why I love poker so much, but I do. I love it so much that I've read many books on the subject, including "Harrington On Hold 'em I & II," "Small Stakes Hold 'em," "The Biggest Game in Town," "Mike Caro's Book of Tells," "Playing Professional Poker: The Essential Guide to Playing for a Living" (yeah, I thought about it), and several more that I can't think of right now. It's paid off though, because it's allowed me to make a great deal of money. We even had a poker club going in Indy before it got shut down by the cops, even though there were cops playing there. Mind you, I didn't play there... because I'm a model citizen.
I guess what I love about poker is that it's a pseudo-sport where cerebral guys like myself have an advantage over meatheads (I realize it's not a real sport, but a card game). However, it's treated the same as a major sport by the mass media, even being the featured presentation of ESPN these days. After all, meatheads hit all the homeruns, score most of the touchdowns, and God knows they usually get the girls.
So poker is my way of getting back at the ogres. Oh yeah, and I like taking money from people. That's pretty cool, too.
And for what it's worth, I coined this piece of poker wisdom (to my knowledge): "Middle pairs are like promiscuous women; never get married to them or they'll break your heart."
Here's a question: Why is it the only attractive women in Indy who are into me have to be married? Seriously, I was at a bar on Mass Ave. last night and I notice this beautiful gal giving me the naughty eyes. She wasn't even subtle about it. Then, a friend of mine walked in and she hugged him. Turns out she works at the school where he used to teach. Even better, her husband was sitting just two feet from her when she was vibing me and telling her friends.
I don't really want to be a homewrecker, so I won't pursue this, but I'm going to need Indy to go ahead and step up in the single lady department. And to be honest, a devil's advocate would say that most marriages will end within 5 years anyway, so what real harm would I be causing by letting a married woman pursue me? I'm not saying I'll do it, I'm just saying the argument could be made by someone with less moral fortitude.
I haven't been relegated to online matching websites yet, but something needs to happen soon. In the meantime, if you're married ladies, please stop vibing me in public. It's not good for anybody.
I absolutely dread my birthday. Not because I'm scared of getting older, because my life seems to get better each year. See, the problem is, I absolutely hate having large groups of people singing to me. Seriously, what is your reaction supposed to be during this whole debacle? Should I smile? I don't think so, because I'm certainly not happy.
And since Chi-Chi's went under, you don't even get fried ice cream for enduring this whole thing anymore.
I think I'm going to be like my little cousin, who just starts laughing and screaming hysterically when people sing the birthday song to him. It's cute when he does it, but trust me, if a grown person did this, it'd be scary. Like, horror movie scary.
Whatever. If you're a Cancer like me, then Happy F-ing Berfday. And this is for you.
So for starters, apparently Tiki Bob's forbids gentlemen from dancing in the cages. Am I wrong, or should there be an outcry of angst from ladies who were denied my sweet dance moves in a public forum? It seems suspect, and I'm thinking there have to be some sexism/OSHA compliance issues at stake here. I have people on it.
My friend Seth flew in from Manhattan for this thing and it did not disappoint. He's one of these guys who's so pretty he gets all the girls he wants. Just for sociology's sake, I told a girl at Tiki Bob's he had herpes just to see what she'd do. She still kissed him; I love it. God bless him. Seth, Mitch and I got the most out of our weekend, touring both Indy and Lebanon. We even hooped it up at our boy Turley's folks' house on Saturday. I won't lie, the game was tough to watch and we have definitely aged and somehow gotten even slower, but the spirit was there. Seth and I owned the competition during the round robin tournament due to some clutch shooting by me on the perimeter and some post domination by him in the paint. We were outsized and outquicked by the two other squads, but we're both very crafty, cerebral players. That's code for saying "We cheat when we can."
Considering my class was somewhat notorious for being ne'er-do-wells back in the day (present company probably included), I was pleasantly surprised to see what everybody's up to at the reunion. Some have focused primarily on procreation, which is fine I guess, but most of us have become reasonably productive members of society. Pretty cool. I even got back in touch with some folks in Indy and in places I'd like to visit, so that was beneficial.
The weird part is, you see people you may have never even spoken to in high school, but you see them and just start talking because you have something in common - you shared the same experience during the same timeframe in your life. Some of us enjoyed high school, some of us didn't, most of us just loathed basking in suburbia, always looking for a way to entertain ourselves. But it's a connection, and you find out that a lot of us are pretty much the same - just skating by one day at a time.
I've now discovered my class has its own MySpace page, so I look forward to keeping tabs on everybody. Maybe there's hope for all of us yet.
Lebanon High's Class of '97 had its 10-year reunion at Jillian's and, sadly, Tiki Bob's in downtown Indy on Saturday. Let me just tell you, fun was had by many, although I regretfully was not afforded an opportunity to tase NBA player Michael Olawakandi at Tiki Bob's with a stun gun as the IPD was able to a couple years ago (frowny face).
The weekend's been a blur and I need to collect my thoughts for a more in-depth posting on Tuesday, but I had a lot more fun than I thought I would. It's always great to see who's married, who's fat, and who's hot that you never even talked to in high school - and wished you had to establish a better line of credit for your late twenties with that person.
See more on this later, as I need to get some sleep and rest after a long weekend of basketball playing, Skeeball rolling, drinking and flirting with former classmates. Go Tigers!
Like many people, music is a big part of my life. I minored in music studies at Indiana University, which is a world-renowned school. I didn't play an instrument, but I did gain a tremendous appreciation for music and had the opportunity to watch some phenomenal students perform.
Anyway, Tim and I are considering forming a cover band, mainly just to play at our own parties and develop our interpretations of songs. If we get some chicks out of it, so be it - I'll be honest, it's something we've discussed. He's planning to get some hand drums (he's a rather accomplished percussionist), and I'll play guitar and do some vocals. I can sing really well some days, and other days I sound like crap. I think a lot of it depends on what I eat, time of day, my mood, etc. Needless to say, I'm trying to recruit a talented young lady I know to join us.
While studying some great songs that might suit our abilities and desires, I came across this tremendous dichotomy that I think illustrates the difference between what I consider soul music (which is anything "real," ergo, it comes from the soul, and crap).
I don't mean to be negative. I don't know why I loathe Rod Stewart's music so much; he seems like a decent guy. But can you see the discrepancy here? Can you feel one person's angst in wanting to see this Brooklyn girl on a train under a yellow moon, the very moon that punches a hole in the night sky? She's beautiful in his eyes, although maybe not to the world. But that doesn't matter, because he feels he's found something special in her; screw what everybody else thinks. Conversely, can you feel the other person's - I don't know - desire to hook up with a groupie or the model/actress in the video after the shoot? Seems obvious to me. It seems obvious to me, Rod.
To me, music is beautiful because it comes from the guts. Anything else is just noise.