So I’m a little late. Been busy. And like the rest of non-Palinated Patrotic Sports Fans, I was watching the World Cup.

Congrats to all of Spain. I felt joy for their country while I was sitting glumly in my chair after watching the Final. In my bold, bright KNVB orange. Ah well.

But my point:

Every four years. You hear it every four years:
“I don’t watch the World Cup. Soccer is boring.”

Shut up, you  PWTWCIBPTNFL/NBAIAer.

Let’s address the rationales springing from their ignorant PWTWETC clouded brains…

Their big complaint? Not enough scoring.

Okay – Let’s pretend that every time a team gets the ball into the penalty box, they get two points. And they do this every 24 seconds. And no one plays defense. Actually, just one guy dribbles the ball into the box while the rest of the players stand around watching.

Now that sounds boring.

Also sounds like the NBA.

Or this – a team starts to mount an attack, there’s momentum, flow. You sense it – your team’s taking control. Okay, keep it going… YES! Awesome pass! Now let’s – yes it looks like – he’s about to…

COMMERCIALS.

Five minutes of commercials.

No flow. No action (unless you think Bud Light’s triple hops whateverthefuck counts as action).

Basically like you’re about to get laid, in the throes of foreplay, and he phone rings. And your partner ANSWERS IT – even though what was going on depended on the urgency of the moment.

Then she spends the next 3-5 minutes talking about Bud Light and Gatorade. And once you get rolling again – RIIIIING! It’s Dodge Ram calling!

Meet NFL football. You get your rocks off, but man it could be soooo much better if bad beer, watery kool-aid, and crappy trucks didn’t keep crushing the mojo..

Another?

Okay – the most boring sport in the world.

Not curling.

Baseball.

Only I totally love baseball and no way am I going to rip it. BTW – watch this space for designated hitter/no-DH rant sometime this summer. And go Giants. And the Dodgers suck.

So. What else?

Hockey. Don’t watch it much. I’ll tell you though – if I grew up someplace with frozen ponds I’d be a total hockey junkie. What a cool game.

Grew up in the Bay Area though. Pre-Shark. Who remembers the Seals? That was my introduction to hockey. They moved to Canada. Which does lead to one point: the NHL sucks, started sucking the moment the Northstars moved to Texas. Fuck that shit.

Hockey in Texas? Carolina? Anaheim? TWO teams in FLORIDA?!?! Wrong. But you have to dig a league with a team from Columbus. Called the Blue Jackets. That’s cool.

But not World Cup cool.

Landon Donavon’s goal against Algeria? Cool.

Germany’s ruthless dissection of Argentina? Cool.

A final that goes into overtime? Way effin’ cool.

So American Football whiners – it’s the scoring/not enough action thing, right?

Okay – action: These guys – soccer guys – actually play. For an hour and a half. No commercials, no coming out to sit on a bench while some other guy does half of your job – playing defense (or offense as the case may be) – while you look at pictures and drink Gatorade. I’d like to see this guy – the one down there with towel -  run constantly for seven miles while guys are trying to knock him down and take the ball – maybe he can give it a try as soon as he’s done sitting on that nice, comfy bench:

"Man I'm WHIPPED! I musta run 50 feet in the last 20 minutes."

Last okay – scoring: Let’s pretend that every time a soccer player dribbles the ball into the big giant box in front of the goal, or each time a player passes it to a teammate in that big giant box, they get 6 points. That’s how football works.

Soccer, scored like football, would have point totals like the effin’ NBA All-Star Game.

If football players are such great athletes, how come they can’t put that pigskin into that big, giant box as often as soccer players do WITH THEIR FEET?!?!??!?

Oh – and the soccer-player-writhing-on-the-ground-in-pain thing? Sure these guys flop (see “taking a charge” in the NBA coaching manual), but they also get brutalized. Football players get nailed – oh my they do – but a turned ankle takes 3 minutes to diagnose? Does now, thanks to those effin’ commercials. Soccer player down, writhes a little, and either has to get up or get his butt off the field. No commercial vacation.

And the injuries aren’t real? Ready – hold still. Stick your leg out. Good.  Now I’m gonna jump onto the outside of your ankle. With cleats on. No? You don’t wanna? Because why?

Don’t ever – EVER – call soccer players babies.

But the big thing is, the true thing, the thing that makes the World Cup Matter and gives it its exceptional life: They Play for Their Country.

Live and die for Their Country.

No free agents. No holding out. No two lockers and an easy chair. Just a focus on representing Your Nation.

France 2010 – the exception.

The best example of this was this:

Way to Man Up for Your Country, Bro!

Essentially committing player suicide, but saving his country in the process. Cheating? No more than a hard foul on a breakaway in basketball game. Good play made because Luis Suarez made a

truly

exceptional

defensive

play.

And he’s a forward.

Peyton Manning would just have been sitting on the bench with his Gatorade towel.

Anyway. When the juices flow – or at least get squeezed out – I’ll rant again. Celebrate, too. In the meantime, know that the shackles of propriety have been lifted and I am dewussified and ready to exert my First Amendment rights.

By the way – if the pen is mightier than the sword, is the First Amendment mightier than the Second?

Yesterday my wife and I drove to Yosemite with our seven-year old nephew. We were taking him there for his first time. This was the highlight of a weekend that showed me what love and excitement are from a new perspective. Not romantic love. The love of place and the love of being and doing. The joy of how great it is when someday becomes today.

My nephew’s name is Wesley – Wes. Wes and I had talked about going skiing “some day” since he was four or so. Sparking big arcs in the freshy pow-pow. Someday. When you’re older. It’ll be fun.

I knew we would. I was pretty sure it would be this winter. We were both looking forward to it.

Last weekend my wife’s family invited us to a cabin near Dodge Ridge. We were to watch Wes over the weekend, so we asked if we could bring him. Thanks, you guys, for letting us bring him.

On Saturday we skied. I was nervous. Chairlift. He’d only been on a chairlift once. With his Dad. Now he was in my hands, my responsibility. Getting on, getting off, sitting on a narrow bench way up in the air. Oh, the things that could happen. Of course there were a couple of adventures getting on. Of course he fell getting off. But just once. And of course neither he  nor I plummeted down to the snow far below the chair.

We rode down a decent sized slope. Snowplowing along. Then we went up again. And again. And started going faster. And faster. Pretty soon we were racing. Then on to a steeper run.

Wes was in control, making relaxed turns, calmly avoiding the periodic obstacles. Smooth, easy, no panic. Joyful. At one point he turned into the ungroomed area off to the left of the run. “Where you going dude?”

“Into the freshy pow-pow.”

It was manky, rutted crud. Wes turned it into pow-pow.

Wes skied Dodge Ridge top to bottom. He may not have ever had more fun in his life. I may not have ever had more in my life either.

Sunday we drove down to Yosemite.

When I was ten years old, I went to Yosemite for the first time. I vividly remember driving into the Valley under the looming, gentle strength of El Capitan. I was in the backseat of our station wagon, behind my dad who was driving, my face literally pressed sideways against the glass as I looked up in complete awe and enjoyment at this spectacular, beautiful giant.

Thirty-five years later. Wes is sitting in the same seat. Wes is doing the same thing. The exact same thing. Looking up, craning his neck.

“Wow.”

He just looked at it. And said that perfect word. “Wow.”

There are a few times when life is more than perfect. Once when my wife drove us to Downieville – just for fun – and it was lightly snowing as we crossed the Downie River. The moment she said “yes” when I proposed. That day I was first taken to Yosemite. You have yours.

More than perfect. These moments elevate living. They etch themselves in our memories – thank god. They bond us with others. They bond us with a greater world, a greater collective energy, and gently lift us above the perfect. Heaven. Maybe even higher.

Wes created one of these moments that day in Yosemite. But the three of us, Wes, Suzanne, and I, created a period of time that was – is – much more than a moment. The skiing. Yosemite. The togetherness.

This living feeling carried itself over the course of a couple of days. It is living inside of me now. Right now. And always. I can feel that it will always live there with its strength, warmth, and togetherness.

So thanks, Wes.

Thank you, too, Suzanne.This would have never come to be without you.

And my sisters and brothers-in-law. And mom and dad for taking me to Yosemite when I was ten.

Thanks to the snow. And El Capitan.

And thanks to the moment. To the “Wow”.

Wow.

]]> http://mikemooers.wordpress.com/2010/02/01/yosemite-and-a-child-someday-comes-wow/feed/ 3 mikemooers el cap http://mikemooers.wordpress.com/2009/12/22/wtf-dvr-and-sports-one-or-the-other-please/ http://mikemooers.wordpress.com/2009/12/22/wtf-dvr-and-sports-one-or-the-other-please/#comments Tue, 22 Dec 2009 21:07:38 +0000 Mike Mooers http://mikemooers.wordpress.com/?p=154 ]]> DVR’s are super, super cool. Recording a show, delaying it so you miss commercials, watching something you like on your own time  – especially great when there’s nothing else on.

Effin’ awesome. Betamax, shmetamax.

I don’t have a TV.  And hey – doesn’t make me a hippy, got it? Living on The Ridge, my old diesel Mercedes, organic food – that’s what makes you a hippy. I like that stuff, but right now I’m in an office wearing what my mom used to call “good school clothes” – shirt with a collar, etc. And I just had a meeting. Not very hippy. Actually kind of a post-milennial /post-dotcom yuppie.

Ouch.

But one of the things a PM/PD Yuppie’d have is a DVR hooked up to their plasmatic home entertainment system.

And if I had one I’d totally use that DVR. Totally.

But – and here’s what maters: I would not watch big-game, live sports delayed – even a couple of minutes – on my DVR. No way.

Why? Because THAT”S NOT LIVE.

The essence, the nut, the raw deliciousness of watching sports live is the drama and immediacy of the event. In. The. Moment.  And sharing that moment with an army of people – die-hard fans that ache like you do in those final, agonizing seconds – sharing it with this army of scattered strangers on that metaphysical level that is experienced in the moment of sudden victory. A moment that can only be experienced in that moment.

Look at these (not-live, I know) highlights for example:

The Catch  –

NCAA Tournament –

Fisk waving it fair in 1975? Joe Carter in 1993? Brian Johnson against the Dodgers in ’97? Buckner and Mookie?

MIRACLE ON ICE?!?!?!?

Ohgeezthisisintenseohgodherewego-ohmygoddidyouseethat?!?Ithinkhecaught-hedid!!!hecaughtit!!!ohmygodohmygodohmygod….  Then you start yelling “woo” a lot and jumping up and down and being totally psyched cuz – did you just see that?!? – it was AWESOME.

Imagine seeing that stuff tape delayed  – even like a three-hour delay or something. Would totally suck, right? So not did you just see that?!? – it was AWESOME.  Much less cool than seeing it in the moment, right?

Well it’s the same damn thing with DVR’s – taped is taped, live is live, the twain shall not meet.

I was at that ’81 Championship. I saw The Catch. Live. In Person. If I’d been in a beer line, heard the cheer, and saw it on the Jumbotron – even 30 seconds after – I’d be PISSED. And I couldn’t say I saw it. I didn’t.

You don’t see it live, then it didn’t get seen. You didn’t share it with your army of scattered strangers on that metaphysical level – you let those comrades down.

Shame.

Facts is facts. Whether it’s 30 seconds, 3 hours, 2 days – whatever. It’s never the same when it’s delayed.

Be here now, for crissake.

If I find out friends are DVRing during big events, I will – and this is a solemn, heart-crossing oath – I will call them up and TELL THEM WHAT HAPPENED.

HA. Serves them right.

Excuses: Had to work, anniversary dinner, traveling, game’s not that big a deal to you but you want to see it anyway – sometimes you just can’t be in front of the TV. Then it’s okay to record. Especially if you fast forward until you catch up to live action.

But DVRing just to avoid commercials? And not seeing a 14-seed bust a bracket with a bad-ass buzzer beater in the NCAA’s cuz your attention span won’t withstand some blah-blah-blah about beer, F-150′s, and Pepsi?

Not in my house.

If I had a TV.

I never, ever, EVER thought it’d turn out this way. EVER.

I have a cat. A chick cat. Her name is Ellie.                           Back off – my wife named her.

I’d have called her Fang or Conan the Mouse Destroyer.  Or Magnum. Or T-Bone. Or Thor.  Or I would just plain never have a cat.

Am I hater? No. I’ve always tolerated cats. Tolerated. Had a roommate with one and he stole some of my records – the roommate, not the cat. But you know that a guy who’s a cat person is more likely to swipe LP’s than a dog guy. Seriously. Unless it’s a foofy dog guy, and then you’re not really a dog guy.

Anyway, cats are fine – other people’s cats.

Me? Dog guy – absolute, total, complete, 110%, no-two-ways-about-it dog guy. Need proof? Look at this blog’s header. THAT’S A DOG. D-O-G. And it’s my dog. Odin. His name’s Odin. You name dogs Odin (or Magnum or Thor), not Ellie. Chick dogs are Lucy or Trudy. Or Thor.

I even started a company that makes stuff for dogs: OllyDog. When you’re done reading this go buy a bunch of their stuff, I still own 10% of the company.

Oh good lord. Here’s the cat. Rubbing her head on my computer. Only a matter of moments until she starts trodding on my keyboard. Don’t worry – I won’t have one of those jumbles of letters that keyboard trodding cats generate and are then followed with “My kittie wrote that! ; )”

Okay. Back to what matters. I – obviously – am a dog person now cohabitating with a cat and it’s working out great. Until she walks on my head in the middle of the night. Effin’ HATE that. But otherwise? I’m into having a cat.

Me? HELL no. Not enough Thorazine in the world to get me to wear this shirt. If for some reason you see me clad this way, I've been lobotomized. Pull a Chief Bromden on my ass ASAP.

And to any of my dog-people friends who think I have betrayed The Order – Step OFF. You are way out of line.

So. I’m into having a cat. Why? Cuz I’m waaaaaay NOT into having mice.

And we had a shitload.

Sure they’re cute, cute until they start crapping inside your toaster oven. Cute until they start eating your delicious baked treat you bought at Mother Trucker’s (that’s our local store) and were saving for the next morning. Cute until they gnaw through the wall – the WALL – just so they can access your kitchen’s bounty. Vermin. Not cute.

Cute? Sure. Until you crap on my clean dishes. Bad move. Now you're VERMIN and the PREDATOR'S gonna getcha...

So it’s war. Game over. Mice must go.

But try getting rid of mice when you live on 20 acres of bushes and trees and grass. It’s mouse heaven. Then they find the inside of the house – oooooh, a cushy, better heaven – and start gnawing into your heater ducts, and have themselves a mouse superhighway running to every vent in every room of your house. Crap.

Tried to get rid of mice nice: peppermint oil, plugged up all the little holes, put wire mesh in the ducts, even used catch-and-release traps. Worked. For about a week. Went nuclear – traps – worked for about a week and a day. Waking up every morning to a dead mouse – one that you killed – really sucks and gets the day off to crappy start. Except for the emotional surge that comes from victory. But that’s short-lived.

The dog would just watch the mice run across the floor – “man, those little things are fast. No way I can catch that. Guess I’ll just keep lying here.”  Of course he chases the cat – Ellie – every chance he gets.

So now there’s this cat. Ellie. Second day she’s here I wake up to a mouse next to the bed. YES! She’s a MOUSER – she’s a PREDATOR! So totally awesome.

Now I’m thinking that I’ll be waking up to dead, mauled mice every AM for a while. I’m ready for it. It’ll be worth it. But guess what?

We haven’t seen or heard a mouse or sign thereof since she brought the sacrificial one to our bedside.

The mice are gone – GONE. Packed up, adios, not to be seen – outta here. I don’t know if Ellie paid them off, shook them down, used Jedi Mind Powers, or just walked around smellin’ like a predator, but those rodents are sayanora-ized.

Cat – Ellie – best power tool I’ve ever owned. But I still hate the walking on my head in the middle of the night thing.

This may have led you to think that I hate bumper stickers. Oh no, no, no. I LOVE bumper stickers. Love, love, love. At least some bumper stickers. Like “Love Your Mother” with the photo of the Earth on it – get it? Or the peace sign with “Back By Popular Demand” one. That’s cool. And then there’s the coolest one ever:

 

Nailed It. Best Bumper Adornment Ever.

First runner-up. Also nailed it.

But there are bumper stickers that don’t get my love, love, love. Quite the opposite. Tape these inside your window, but best don’t block me in the fast lane:

1.

This is the worst one ever. Yes, I saw it in Berkeley. This may be the smuggest, holy-than-thou-est thing I have ever read. I really, really hate Bush. But this sticker? I actually hated it more. Not more than Cheney, though.

2.

If you had any friends, you’d be on the phone too.

3.

Too. Many. Words. Bumper sticker, not bumper book. Hard to read while driving = accidents and deaths. Let that be on your head.

4.

No. It’s not. Your other BIKE is a bike. And you’re driving your car so none of this actually matters. Polluter.

5.

Your cat doesn’t give a shit about you.

6.

Actually, I like this one.

7.

Asshole.

8.

1. Has the sense of “Everyone else should coexist with me.” 2. Illegible at highway seeds – USE LETTERS! 3. Not gonna happen – I tried sticking it on my cat’s butt but the dog still chased him.

9.

Celebrate Diversity? Coexist? What? Which one? On dear god – what if this one and the one above were on the SAME BUMPER?!?!? I’m easily confused so don’t make it worse. Definitely not sticking this one on my cat’s butt.

Finally -

And we shoulda thought of it before. Maybe not me, but the rest of you that make up we. Wake up there – I can’t think of everything. So, not thinking of it before – here’s the “it”:

The Living Lands Agrarian Network – www.livinglandsagrariannetwork.org .

Go to the website. Then come back.

You like it, huh?

The deal here in The NC – that’s Nevada County. And it’s in CALIFORNIA. And it was called Nevada before – BEFORE -  that Silver State next door decided they liked the name too. Anyway, the deal here in The NC is that we have hecka small to medium organic farms sprinkled all over the place. There’s room for hella (that would be more than “hecka”) but startin’ a farm ain’t free. There’s infrastructure, dirt, irrigation, those waxy collapsible boxes that they deliver your food in and that you’re supposed to return each week but – LOOK! – there’s three of them in the shed. Oops.

So, okay, that stuff costs. And then there’s land. Recession scmhucession. This is still California and land effin’ COSTS. Costs BANK.

So what to do?

Borrow the stuff. Squat. Trade. Glom. Don’t buy it, just FARM it.

Farm the land that’s just sittin’ around being all fallow and not covered with corn and squash and sunflowers and whatever else it is we grow up here. You know what I mean.

But back to the REAL farming.

So Living Lands does this: They farm the land that’s just sitting there. Say you have 10 acres. C’mon, you use what – one? Maybe two if you have a croquet set? So there’s 8 acres just kickin’ it, getting bored after school, and looking for trouble.

In steps LLAN – they plow, sow,  and reap. At four different locations these guys are growing everything I need to chow down heartily.

Hell YES they got meat.

meat. hell yes.

Hell YES they got grains.

grains. hell yes. but not as hell yes as meat.

And super-hell EEEEYEEESSS they got a mobile pizza oven.

pizza oven. not thiers. google image thing.

And yeah, vegetables too. Squash and stuff. That’s cool, too, I guess.

not squash. still a vegetable.

Come to Mikey.

There are urban models for this type of patchwork farming, but I’ve never heard of it in a rural setting. Someone else out there seen this way of doing it right? I hope so – it oughta spread.

Duh.

Yes. I need to get over it, focus on what’s important, and realize and honor that everyone has a reason for the choices they make.

Yeah. And get a life.

Still, I rant:

You support a cause – let’s say World Peace.
You get a bumper sticker showing your support for that cause – let’s say it’s that really annoying COEXIST one.

Hard to Read. Means Accidents. Deaths. And the "S" in the yin-yang is a reeeeeaaal stretch. Idea: USE LETTERS. And is "coexist" really a word? Plus it's kind of lame goal. I think we can do better than merely EXISTING - isn't that basest form of, well, uh, existence? How about "cothrive"? Or "colet'sgogetabeer"? Okay, that's enough sub-rant. Main rant continues below:

You take the bumper sticker – bumper STICKER – and tape it – tape, not stick, but TAPE it to the inside of your car’s rear window.

Way to commit.

FIRST of all, bumper stickers peel right off these days so the “damage” excuse is out the window (and if you think that pun was intended then shame on you).

SECOND of all they come with adhesive on the back so there’s really no reason to add your own.

THIRD of all it’s lame and looks like ass with all of the tape flopping around.

INFINITY of all it’s totally non-committal. “Oh dear – what f I change my mind about my stance on World Peace? And I’ve put that provocative sticker on the rear of my car? Oh dear, what will I do? Oh gee, I’ll just tape it to the inside window here and then when I change my stance on peace I can just pull it down until I change my mind again. Phew.”

C’mon. Get off the fence. Geez.

Do you tape your registration sticker to your license plate? Doubt it. So here’s some advice – take your little social statement decal and STICK IT! I mean really stick it. Someone worked hard to put that little split in the back of the paper you peel off to get to the adhesive. Don’t be a jackass – honor them.

Get rid of the tape, get off the fence, and get on the bumper, baby.

In return I will work on getting a life. Deal?

They make perfect sense – if you live in a rural area or are a contractor.

Or a suburbanite with a big-ass boat  to tow around (aren’t you glad you took out that second mortgage to buy that boat? Great investment.) and you love watching fossil fuels turn into deadly gasses. That’s cool, too.

Everyone else? GET A CAR for crissake.

Pick-ups don’t need much explanation. They are the perfect utilitarian tool. Okay, maybe the hammer is the perfect utilitarian tool, but a PUT (pick-up truck) is the mostest perfectest UT (utilitarian tool) that has wheels and a stereo – standard.

The Toyota SR5. Ford F150. I don’t know jack about trucks but these two seem like the ones. No bullshit – just a cab, four wheels, and a box in the back.

(Speaking of the box in the back leads to a WTF? These:

Congrats, you just emasculated your truck.

Doesn’t that kinda defeat the purpose?)

Pick Up Trucks – don’t mess with them, let them be the tools they are – the hammers of the automotive world. Here’s the blueprint:

Simple, utilitarian, trucklike

Dump runs, dog hauling, sleeping in – after you hose it out from the dump run, toss the skis in, toss the WHATEVER in. The only problem – people want you to help them move.

Still, I’ll take one.

When blogging makes me rich.

A better solution? Close the bedroom door, people.

But there’s the added element – the total WTF: Decorative Pillows. DECORATIVE EFFIN’ PILLOWS.

You make the bed and have to stack all of the pillows in some kind of pretty arrangement.

Pain. In. The. Ass.

Then – bed time – you have to remove the pillows. And they are so effin’ big that there is NO WHERE TO PUT THEM. They land on the floor, get dirt and dog hair on them, and then it’s the dog’s fault that he tracked dirt and dropped hair where the pillows that shouldn’t exist land where they shouldn’t go.

Bad dog? No. Bad pillows.

And the next day? You get to do ALL OVER AGAIN. Um, what’s the definition of insanity?

This arrangement (photo) is particularly offensive to my delicate tastes – a wonderful combination of OCD pillow arranging with the added oh-so-casual flavor of the morning paper and remote control.

What do you think would happen if – while reading the paper and watching the Today Show – I happened to spill my coffee on the damn decorative pillows? I’ll have my coffee on the couch, thank you.

Oh right, you're using the remote and reading the paper in this perfectly made bed.

Decorative pillows. I know they won’t go away. I know they are a part of my life. I don’t have to like them one bit.

WTF? They make absolutely no sense.