J.J. Juices Up

(or, J.J. Overcomes His Fear of Cameras Long Enough for David to Get a Cheap Laugh)

Alright, before anybody complains that after only a month of blogging I've already resorted to putting up pictures of my dog, let me just defend myself by pointing out that President Obama has also resorted to putting up pictures of his after five months, and his life is alot more interesting than mine, I presume. In fact, the Obamas have actually released a baseball card for their Portuguese Water Dog, Bo. This is that baseball card (click on it to see it nice and big):


Now, if you're like me, the first thing you'll realize, once you get beyond Bo's innate cuteness, is that Bo is not playing baseball in his baseball card. He's not even wearing his team's uniform. You'll also chuckle unabashedly at the "making friends with foreign dognitaries" line.

However, this got me to thinking that J.J. needed his own baseball card. And it could be bigger and better than Bo's. I might not be able to win the hearts of millions, play basketball, have a wife who's still attractive even into her 40s, or raise two adorable little black babies, but by God, if I can do one thing better than Barack, it's make my dog a baseball card.

So here's J.J. as he appeared in 1984:


Part of that storied World Series-winning Detroit Tigers squad of 1984, J.J. continued to play until the mid-'90s, when a nagging knee injury complicated by the fact that he hadn't been born yet finally caught up to him. A lifetime .274 hitter, J.J. is most fondly remembered by Tigers fans for becoming confused two outs into the top of the 6th inning with runners on base and mauling Paws, the Tiger mascot.
In 1995, while playing for the St. Louis Cardinals in a game in Milwaukee in the waning years of his career, J.J. achieved the rare feat of chasing down and biting all three Sausage Race contestants, catching up to the leading Polish Sausage just a few feet before the finish line.
More recently, a lawsuit against the "Air Bud" franchise has been pending for the last three years in the court system of California, with J.J. claiming he was "not compensated for a number of films so blatantly based upon my life. Oh, and woof woof, motherfuckers."

So Bo can stick that up his pipe and smoke it.

David Does DC

After Detroit's 5-0 thrashing of the Penguins in Game 5, I was forced to make the ultimate move of desperation to salvage the series for the 'Burgh- go to DC. That's right: I had to be in the city where the Steelers won the Super Bowl if the Penguins were to have a chance to win the Stanley Cup. So I decided to go stay with Charles, currently banished to DC for reasons which I cannot disclose on the internet, in his brother-in-law's house in Cleveland Park. I made this decision, along with Zeb who will ride with me, about 12 hours before acting on it.

Anyways, long story short, I go to DC, the Pens win the Cup, parties ensue, I blog about it, yada yada yada, I leave DC.

And here, my friends, is where shit hits the fan.
Prior to leaving, Zeb decided it would be really fun to pull an all-nighter and leave around 8 AM. This turned out to be a fine idea until I realize - while I'm driving, mind you - that every now and then I'll come to my senses and realize I have no recollection of the past 5-10 seconds except that it involved my car being in another lane and an extraordinary amount of luck and good fortune. After these little lapses happen about a half-dozen times or so, I decide to let Zeb drive and take a little nap. Zeb does this; I pass out for about 3 hours. Upon regaining consciousness, Zeb informs me of his supernatural talents to wake up right before he hits things, explaining just how lucky we are to still be alive. Now falling asleep multiple times at the wheel may seem like an unbeatable trip highlight to the lesser observer, but when you're in the car with David and Zeb, that's just the intro.

I take the wheel from Zeb after my nap pretty well rested. We enter South Carolina. Now for those of you unfamiliar with South Carolina, it's not very large. In fact, only 10 states are smaller than it. Once you've crossed the North Carolina border, the trip through SC is more of a victory lap than anything else, an hour or two of a drive only there to make sure you really meant it when you said you were going back home. That's the mindset I'm in as we come to Florence, get off of I-95 and onto I-20.

And then, on Interstate 20, just after Exit 137, tragedy struck: my back right tire EXPLODED. Legit, the car started swerving and shaking, and I thought that persistent oil leak had finally caught up to me and killed my engine before, glimpsing into the rearview mirror, I see, flying, fluttering, floating through a cloud of smoke and dust and ash, a good chunk of my tire. Lesser men may have panicked in this situation; Zeb, for instance, tells me to pull over, pointing to the 6" wide left shoulder. I calmly maneuver the compromised machine to the right side (across 2 lanes of traffic, mind you), corralling it to keep it from driving off a bridge in the process, step out of the car, and stare at the remnants of the exploded tire wrapped around the axle. Zeb and I begin laughing hysterically in the face of our luck. We call our parents and AAA (pronounced "Triple-A," for when you read it). My mom, as per her usual state, is freaking out. [Fun side note: This is how I discovered that I no longer have AAA coverage because I "no longer drive."]

After waiting for about twenty minutes there on I-20, a nice baby blue truck from the Stone Age rumbles up, and a gangly, middle-aged man who looks like the unfortunate product of a wild night involving Sisyphus, grease, and your average NASCAR fanatic steps out, nametagged "Gene." So Gene comes out, takes off the crappy tire (which involves unrolling the tire around itself like 3 or 4 times and pulling the treads out of the axle), goes to the trunk to get the spare, and pulls out a tire that just so happens to have a nail driven through it. More hysterics ensue, and finally another truck pulls up and a more robust man who looks like he had no business wearing a New Jersey Devils t-shirt steps out, and tells Gene to take us back to the shop so they can mount this other tire I just so happen to have in my trunk (I roll two spares deep, although none of them work, apparently).

So Zeb and I crawl into the truck with Gene. Terrifyingly, I lose the rock-paper-scissors bout to determine who has to sit next to Gene. We climb into the truck. Let me describe the innards of this truck for you. What first struck me was the fact that the stick shift was right where my legs would go, meaning I was all up and on Zeb for a good bit of time, and Gene's hands were uncomfortably close to the goods. Second, and possibly more disturbing, I see gold, silver, and bronze medals hanging from the rearview mirror, and by medals, I mean pieces of plastic attached to red, white, and blue ribbon. These puzzle me to no end - what grade did he win these in? what child did he take these from? are these the greatest accomplishments in this man's life? etc., etc. Third, the truck's top speed is 85. That's right. We'd been pretty much cruising at this truck's top speed in my '92 Camry. So here we are, sardined into this truck that miraculously survived that infamous meteor 65 million years ago, on our way to Florence. Zeb spends the entire time tweeting this, while I'm passionately regretting that my phone has died. I spend most of the ride wondering why, exactly, does making animals with our hands make them awkward.

After a short eternity, we get to the shop, they fix our tire, and send us back along our way with the New Jersey Devils shirt-wearing guy, who apoligizes for subjecting us to a truck ride with Gene. He fixes the car and, about an hour later, we're in Columbia rejoicing and kissing the ground.

NEW DISCOVERY:
My '92 Camry (the Gray Goose) gets 30 miles to the gallon and should hit 214,000 miles by the end of the month. What a ride.

David Wins the Stanley Cup

I DID IT! I WON THE STANLEY CUP! Victory, how sweet you taste.

Now I know what you're thinking: How, David, what with your Super Bowl victory last February - your second championship in the last four years, mind you - and the heartbreaking trip to the Stanley Cup Finals last year, all while rebuilding your struggling baseball franchise, did you have enough left in the tank to go through the Stanley Cup Playoffs, the most grueling and tiring of any playoff system in the major US sports, unscathed, unaffected, yet anointed Champion all the same?

On the other hand, if you happen to fall on the anti-David part of the David-liking spectrum, you may be thinking to yourself, "David, that's b.s., the Penguins won the Stanley Cup while you sat back and watched on your lazy ass, you egotistical jackass." Well, for one, incorrect. I have put myself into a self-imposed fasting-of-sorts for the last 8 weeks for this championship. Muslims have Ramadan, Christians have Lent, hockey fans have the Playoffs. A list of things I gave up so as not to jinx the Pens:

• Blogging
  
• Wearing anything related to Pittsburgh sports teams
  
• Thinking about a possible Stanley Cup victory
• Eating during games
• Walking counterclockwise around my pool table
• Taking my eyes off the game
• Remembering players can't hear me through the TV screen
• Changing out of my bathing suit
• Shaving semi-regularly
• Not doing the daily crossword puzzle in the newspaper
• Being outside of an arm's reach of my now-lucky pen
  
• Talking about what I'd given up
  
• 8 weeks of an otherwise stress-free time of my life
• Red meat

Now I know it's nothing compared to you Lent-observers among us, but I thought it was a pretty good start. Regardless, the Lord our God has rewarded my efforts to remind myself of the less fortunate among us by granting me the Stanley Cup.
A Cup to match my Bowl...