The blogs are gonna be fun today.
In other news, Jeffrey-Jeffrey-Jeffrey, who is a professional writer and journalist extra-ordinaire (since he does the sports thing and therefore is the best in hyperbole) called me out on my own blog for not posting about Jerry Reed’s death. Um, who appointed you editor, dude? Bahaha, nevertheless, he’s right. Shall I make excuses for the oversight? Nah, who wants to read a bunch of lies.
This is for you, Jeff:
Nobody knows his name or what he looks like, but we all know his voice, especially from movie trailers but also from a lot of other voiceover work.
I hate to think that he would just kind of dissolve, like a dismbodied voice, so go check out what he looked like and what his body of work included.
His name is Don LaFontaine, and you can check out his website here.
In the meantime, those Hollywood types should check out Paul Camarata, the voice of the Saintcast and SQPN. Now that’s a voice!
It means I feel really old. I’m now older than a candidate. How the heck did that happen?
If you say it’s because I’m getting old, I won’t be your friend anymore.
click for bigness
thanks to pamela houk, a facebook friend that sent this out. absolutely magnificent. thank you.
Some time ago I made fun of the fools at the running of the bulls in Pamplona, bemoaning our cultural heritage and the apparently missing common sense gene, whereupon Danny produced the exciting Tomatina Festival that was celebrated today in Spain, which, I must say, looks about as bloody as the bull run, but infinitely more fun.
I mean, you don’t have to be Michael Phelps to to the breast stroke in tomato pulp…
- Link the person(s) who tagged you.
- Mention the rules on your blog.
- Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours.
- Tag 6 fellow bloggers by linking them.
- Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged.
Okay, here are my unspectacular quirks:
- I cannot write with a messy desk. Thus, I either don’t write, or I clean my desk and am then emotionally drained and cannot write. Perhaps that explains why I’m behind on my writing all the time.
- My comfort food is fried eggs and rice with ketchup. Disgusting. And tasty.
- I buy beautiful journals and then don’t want to soil them by writing in them (I’m sensing a deep and revealing pattern here).
- I get really annoyed when people don’t use turn signals (although, to be honest, I rarely use them myself).
- I still have a thing for Donny Osmond.
- When I’m really tired, I wiggle my right foot to go to sleep.
Okay, your turn…
I thought I’d introduce you to Psychic Chicken.
Go ahead, see what kind of score you get. Play here.
Check out this little ole article at ESPN that tells the tale of 9 year old Jericho Scott, who isn’t allowed to pitch on his little league team because, get this, HE’S TOO GOOD!
WHAT?
Yeah, it turns out the kid can pitch 40 mph and stay under control. That means somebody’s kid is going to be struck out at every bat. Oh, poor babies. Um, once upon a time the point of playing sports was:
1. to have fun
2. to learn discipline
3.to learn how to suck it up when you lost so you’d be motivated to work hard and win — I don’t care what all you tree-hugging-self-esteem-pushing-let-me-buy-my-kid-a-trophy-he-didn’t-earn folks think, and spell out the facts. The game is about WINNING. Yes, somebody has to say it. WINNING. Not sportsmanship, although that is essential. Not teamwork, although that is a given. Not even that bad word, trying. WINNING. W. I. N. N. I. N. G.
Somewhere along the line people (read: parents) have hijacked organized sports and turned it into a whining fest. If those kids had any sense, they’d trade the $200 cleats, the $150 “professional-style” uniforms, and the manicured lawns for a sandlot somewhere and go play ball.
Disgusting.
another cup of coffee 