One of the good ones.

Someday, when DC is safely in the rear-view mirror, I will think back to this tree that lives in front of our condo and smile. I admit, the first year I saw this thing I thought the world was coming to an end, and this was the start of it all. It's actually kinda creepy how the flowers explode out of the branches. This year, though, it's all good, mang. The tree turned into a riot of purple as it always does, the bark is black from recent rains, and the contrast is wonderful. When all is said and done, I will miss this tree.

Michigan Bob, d.b.a. ...

While poor Heather is suffering in preggers-town, I'm gleefully drinking a Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale, thinking of nifty alternatives to Michigan Bob's moniker, should the need for alternatives arise. Here we go.


1. Remington Bronson Shannon: Brings the best of two worlds together, Remington firearms and Charles Bronson.

2. Fuego "Diamond" Shannon: A nod to the Jazz Singer with a latino flair.

3. Angus Blackjack Shannon: With a name like this, he'd probably require an eye patch. One with a Sox logo on it. He can tell people he once killed a Yanks fan just to watch him die. Plus, with the initials "A.B.S.", chicks will subconsciously think of the braking system in vehicles and feel safer with him around.

4. Macky "Guns" Shannon: No comment needed, other than to say if anyone made the mistake of singing "Mack The Knife" to this kid, he could go home, get daddy's gun, use it, and then use daddy's black passport for travel to a non-extradition country. It would just add to the legend of Guns Shannon.

5. Delicious Shannon Ice: Q-Town has been without a bona-fide pimp for too long.

6. Mr. Chips: Let 'em figure THAT one out.

7. Steven Perry Shannon: Ode to a great. (OK, I admit. I might have outdone myself with that one.)

8. Judas "Ratt" Shannon: Might as well get 'em all in there in one name.


And if it's a girl...

1. Cherries "Poppin'" Shannon: Her somewhat less-cool entourage could occasionally evoke her catch-phrase by saying, "Hey, Cherries...what's poppin'?" To which she would casually reply, "chillin' like a villan while I'm illin' with the willin'." The proper response..."word up, sucka."

2. Dopetastic Shannon Rock: Girls can be pimps too...

3. "All Skate" Shannon: She could perpetually get around on roller skates sipping a smoothie of some sort. Guys would chase after her, but she wouldn't know because she'd have her Walkman on listening to some innocent music, grooving in her own innocent way, sipping on an innocent smoothie of some sort. Of course, most guys would dig that, and that's when they may or may not notice Diplomat Security Dad in an non-descript sedan behind them with a high-powered, silenced firearm trained on the center of their back. Yep. They'd all say, "Old man Shannon, he'll shoot your fucking spine out."

No need to thank, Heather. We can hoist up a shot or two when this is all over and toast to Judas' good health.

Sh*tstain, DC strikes again.

To maintain a dog park in Sh*tstain, DC, the following conditions must be met;

1. There can be no evidence of rats within a six-block radius.
2. Every single tenant within visual range of the space must agree in writing to having a dog park. Every single one.

Sure. We can have a dog park. Simply meet these two main requirements.

Oh, by the way, this requirement is only for dog parks. Restaurants, schools, and day-care centers do not have to meet these requirements.

Get me the hell out of dodge. This place stinks.

Last seen with Michigan Bob.

Well. The Carmenator and I returned from Beantown, and our St. Paddy's sojurn. As you might expect, it was wacky fun. Although, there were a couple of changes this year; inevitable signs of aging. We ended the night eating Lynwood's Cafe pizza instead of yakking in someone's garbage can. The Carmenator spent the majority of the day in Cambridge visiting a grad school chum and her sick baby. And...Heather was with child. Which, of course, meant very little to no boozy-booze for Heather. Even Chuck was cutting back a bit. Not entirely, but a bit.

No such actions by the Fox or me. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. As you might expect, thirteen hours of drinking can have an effect on a fella. And it did us. For those that know us, it meant insight and commentary beyond belief or reproach. And so, in our hours of madness, Fox and I came up with names for Heather and Chuck's youngin-to-be.

Ready?

For a boy, Michigan Bob, The Q-town Dandy.
For a girl, Beauty Shop Shannon.

I know. Genius. Kirk got a little antsy-in-the-pantsy about it, but he'll come around. He'll see the genius in our ways. So will Chuck. And Heather. They'll see.

They'll all see...

WTF.

Ok. Check out the diagram above. It's of an average Washingtonian. See anything missing? Yep! That's right! Reason. It's missing damn reason.

Why am I especially bitter today? Simple. Today was the day Washingtonians decided to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Parade and everything. Not the seventeenth, when it actually occurs. Nope. Today. I could see if St' Paddy's fell on a weekday. Then it might make sense. But this year it's on a Saturday. What gives, idiot land?

F*cking idiots. Yikes.

Mee so happy.

Four reasons.

1. I saw a Cardinal, an Oriole, AND a Blue Jay recently. It wont be long now. (April 4th, to be exact. 4pm. You want some more, you maniacs?)

2. As I grow older, I am getting more in touch with understanding my love of Foxy Boxing.

3. Two weeks until I'm back at my local with my friends drinking incessantly, and putting my filthy man-paws all over my wife under the guise of "caring."

4. I'm off to celebrate number 4; half-price Belgian beers at L'Enfant. Whoop whoop!

A common mistake.

A very common mistake is made around these parts almost every day.

Virginia is not for lovers.

Virginia is for idiots.


I am stunned, almost on a daily basis, at how inept the population of that state is. They can't add. They can't spell. They sure as all f*ck-get-out can't drive or park.

Case in point; Carmencita and I went to the Apple store in Bethesda to get some support for the fancy new Mac, and we were sitting at a red light at a main intersection. The cross-street was two lanes; one to turn left only, and one for turning right or going straight. A smallish SUV approached the light, stopped completely (during the green light, mind you), and the driver got out of the car to talk to a friend waiting to cross the street against the light. Unbelievable. Can you guess where the idiot was from? Yep. Virginia!

More evidence; a woman came into the bank asking to withdraw some money. I said, sure, just go to the window and withdraw some money, but make sure you present ID to do so. She said, "well, that's going to be a problem. It's my husband's account." When I replied that, if she wasn't listed on the account, she would be unable to withdraw money, she became hostile and told me, "sir, when you have been married as long as I have, you can tell me what I can't do with my husband's money." She was NOT on the account, and wound up complaining to the corporate office of my unwillingness to take her at her word that her husband authorized the withdrawl (even though she would not let me call him.)

And, if these weren't enough, I have one more that is indisputable. Period. End of story...

I had someone from Richmond bet me $50 that Plymouth Rock was located in Pennsylvania. Honest to God.

"You sure about this? You know where I'm from, right?"

"Yep. Fifty bucks. Plymouth Rock is in Pennsylvania."

"Just out of curiosity, how did it wind up there?"

"The Pilgrims carried it with them after they landed."

"So, let me get this straight. The Pilgrims landed on the rock, and then transported it to Pennsylvania? Have I got it right? Upon landing, they decided to travel inland, and took the rock with them?"

"That's correct."

"So...what about all the Pilgrims that stayed in Massachusetts? And what about the rock everyone "pretends" is Plymouth Rock?"

"They probably put a fake rock there so people wouldn't go looking for the real one in Pennsylvania."

"Uh...you might want to look that one up."

"Nope. I'm certain."

"Tony, last shot, man. I mean it. I'm from there. As school kids, we would go visit it. Are you SURE Plymouth Rock is in Pennsylvania?"

"Yep."

Yikes.

Five minutes later I was $50 richer.


Get me the hell out of here...

911.

I went to see Reno 911!:Miami this afternoon.

Two thoughts.

1. If you enjoy the show, the movie is just like the show; it doesn't pretend to be something it's not. There are many plot lines taken from the show, so you'll enjoy it.

2. I can't get over how much Kermit looks like Junior. Yikes.


On a separate note, I tried Leinenkugel's Summer Wheat beer tonight. Dee-lish. Give it a shot, all.

Innocence lost.

The wife and I went to see The Breach this afternoon. It was a great movie, but a wierd experience. Sitting in a movie theater in DC, watching a movie based in DC, I realized how little I know about politics. As events unfolded in the movie, pockets of chatter blossomed in the theater regarding the veracity of the event. And not just a comment or two, but many; "that building isn't located there", "the FBI would NEVER do that", "that's not standard procedure", and so on. Impressive and annoying at the same time, I guess. It made me acknowledge my inferiority where matters of government are concerned. And then came the second acknowledgement...

I don't care to understand it.

I don't need to know how laws or sausages are made. No matter. I understand what the operational parameters of laws and sausages are, and am content to abide by them; obeying laws while eating sausages. I don't feel lesser for it, despite the suffocating expectation of this berg imposed on its constituents.

The majority of the comments were made in the spirit of, "even I know that, the movie makers wouldn't last a minute in this town if they can't even correctly elaborate on surveillance protocols. Pshaw!" People were using the story and it's details to deem themselves superior because they work in that building, or they know so-an-so, and blah blah blah. This town trades on who you know, and how can I benefit from that connection. Period. It's so bad, it has even pervaded seeing a flick with yer chick on a holiday afternoon.

So, DC, I ask that you keep your opnions of everything to yourself, lest I utter one or two of my own.


(p.s., it really was a good talkie. I suggest seeing it. Also, we went to a restaurant called "Matchbox" afterwards. I'll do a Nibble Note on it at my chow-site, www.mysplendidtable.blogspot.com, should anyone find themselves for want of a good gourmet pizza joint in Washington.)

"List 5 books that played and important role in your childhood and explain why."

Ugh. It's amazing how just one simple sentence can wreak havoc on your soul and make you feel all old and shite. Thanks a bunch, Fox.

Well, time to 'Cowboy up,' I suppose. (Incidentally, I heard a rumor of signing Juan Gone? Huh?)


The Five Most Influential Books of my Childhood

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, Rudyard Kipling

Mr. Kipling taught me to love mongooses and hate cobras. Years later, these lessons still serve me, having befriended several mongooses (the most notable, Oscar, a good friend of Nipples), and laid the smack down on a cobra or two when called for (I had to dispose of one just the other day. Carmen and I were having a cocktail at a spot downtown. I went to the can, and when I returned, there was this cobra in a blue gabardine suit makin' moves on my lady! He's sittin' on the barstool all cool-like, drinking a vodka gibson and saying things like, "oooh, baby, if I had hands I'd sex you up real good." Well, I put a stop to that toot-sweet! I went up and told him there was a mongoose outside spreading a rumor that his mother was a whore. By the time he figured out my ruse, we had left. F*cking cobras; they fall for that every time.)

The Hobbit, J.R.R. Tolkien

Anyone who read this when they were young and deny any influence on their reading habits going forward is simply out of thier mind. This epic changed everything for everyone everywhere forever. Superlatives aside, I was one of three classmates in high school who passed notes to each other in Sindarin. Dîn broniant, estathar aen Tolkien!

The Amityville Horror, Jay Anson.

Yeah, I know. It explains a lot, doesn't it? I first read Amityville when I was around seven, and it did absolutely nothing for me. I read it again at age nine, and it scared the crap out of me for years to come. (I'm not kidding, either. I didn't drop another deuce until I was 11. It's documented.) But I loved it. I loved being scared in that reading kind of way; where you know you're safe, but you don't really know. I think it was reading this book, coupled with convincing my parents to let me stay up one night to watch The Birds that sent me off on my path of loving horror.
4. The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, C.S. Lewis

The whole series did it for me, but Wardrobe is the special one for me. As a kid, my mom would take me to the bookstore and get me books whenever I wanted. The only requirement was that I had to finish the book she bought before I could get another one. I remember getting this book, starting in the car, and finishing it right after supper. I read all seven books in a week and a half or so. I devoured them. Aslan was such a regal character. I later read The Screwtape Letters, and while it is completely a worthwhile read, it's a bit much at age seven.

5. The Cricket In Times Square, George Selden

I call every mouse I see Tucker. Those that have read the book know why.

Other considerations...

There are almost too many to list. I partially self-taught myself to read at age three or so, and have never stopped (my mom has a great story of my using her bedroom's bathroom, and coming out asking what a "menstrual cycle" was, having read all the boxes in her basket next to the bathroom. tee hee hee.)

Here are a few.

How To Eat Fried Worms, The Outsiders, The Pushcart War, Charlotte's Web, all Dr. Seuss (even though my favorite was a book showing the artwork that didn't make his books. Messed up, he was!), Animal Farm, Cujo, The Catcher In The Rye, and a children's book about a turtle who started walking aroud the world. He eventually got up so much speed, he hit a ramp and went into orbit. I cannot, for the life of me, remember the title. Any help would be GREATLY appreciated!

Those were the days...

So there I was on the treadmill at the gym tonight (yeah! the gym! Me! WHOOP! WHOOP! Tee hee hee! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!)

...

(ahem.)

So I was on the treadmill, schlocking through the 5k run I do thrice a week, and I was jamming to my iPod. Earlier, I had uploaded several of my favorite Ozzy, Megadeth, and Iron Maiden discs. I wanted a serious stream of energy whilst killing myself.

God, I didn't realize how much I missed that music, nor how far from it I had strayed.

I miss all of it; Van Halen, Dokken, Iron Maiden, Led Zepplin, Judas Priest, Slayer, Megadeth, old Metallica, et cetera.

And, gosh darn it, I'ma gonna listen to more of it. Searing guitars, massive hair, non-sensical lyrics (Were heading for venus /and still we stand tall/Cause maybe theyve seen us and welcome us all/With so many light years to go/ and things to be found/I'm sure that well all miss her so) and all the wonderful trappings that go with it. I'm going for it all.

Let the metal renaissance begin.

All skate!

Not so sorry...

Yep. I gave it to a completely unsuspecting Starschmuck's "barista" who tried to tell me their espresso was 100% decaffinated. (For those in the know, it's impossible to completely decaf a bean. Just can't do it. Someday, ask me how I know this.)

Way I figure it, he had it comin' to him.

Apologia.

What, exactly, do you do with a five-spot that has spent almost 35 minutes next to your naked arse?

I found myself in just this predicament this afternoon when I stood, face-to-face, with the intended recipient of this ass-cash...and realized I wasn't going to give it to him.

It's true; the purported jerk was, upon further investigation, simply a curmudgeon.

And I owe him an apology.

You know who I speak of; book store jerkface-turned-authentic-curmudgeon. Here's how it went down.

I went to Eastern Market specifically for this evil deed. And to shop for some paperbacks I couldn't find at any other used bookstore. I felt ok about this because, after all, I needed some reason to give him the dirty, dirty money, right?

So I entered the shop, steeling my nerves for another brusque 'greeting.' What I got was,

"hello."

???

???

???

hello? Shit!

"uh, hi."

"Welcome. Fiction is upstairs; non-fiction, downstairs."

"uh...thanks." (my resolve was cracking.)

I went upstairs to re-group. Forty minutes later, I had a pile of seven or eight novels. Time to move downstairs to look at their cooking reference and baseball books. I tempered my resolve; we were to cross paths again. I walked past his desk.

"Find everything ok?"

"What the f*ck happened to you?" I asked. (Well, no. I didn't say that. I wanted to, but I decided not to show him all my cards yet.)

"uh...yeah, thanks. Where are the baseball books?" I was setting him up for a trap! I knew precisely where the baseball books were. I was simply goading him into acting like a jerk again. Genius!

"Downstairs to the right."

I went downstairs to the right. Sure enough, the baseball books were there. (Wait, I knew that already! Why was he being so nice?) Enough thought. Enough talk. Time to execute Operation "Give Jerk Ass-Cash." I retrieved the now-cursed money. We had spent the last half-hour getting "real close" if you catch my drift. My butt now had a 2 7/8" x 6" chilly spot where Lincoln was just moments ago. No worries, though; it was off to wield a unique jihad on he who would insult the bill's master.

I grabbed The Longest Slump Ever, and headed upstairs, prepared for the endgame. We came face-to-face.

"See the game last night?"

"uh...yeah" (God! What was happening here?)

"That Manning, he sure is a good one, huh?"

"uh...yeah." (This is bad.)

"Well, one good thing, though. Now we can move on to baseball, right?"

"uh...yeah." (Aw, shit...)

"Hopefully we'll get to see the yankees fall again, huh?"

"uh...yeah." (ABORT! ABORT! ABORT! He hates the yanks! Operation GJAC is a NO-GO!)

"Will that be cash?"

"uh..." (I was at the fail-safe point, the moment of truth, the true event-horizon of the mission.)

"uh..." (I knew what had to be done.)

"uh..no, thanks. Do you take American Express?"

"Sure do."

I handed him my card, and let my adreneline level lower. I tucked the money in a back pocket.

"Have a great day. Stay warm!"

Yeah. Sure, pal. I'll stay warm.

I wished him the same as I left the building.



So, there it is. I couldn't do it. I was wrong and I knew it. So, Mr. Man, I apologize for mis-judging you. And, at least, I cemented my opinion that Capitol City Books is the best of the bunch out there in DC.

And as for the stinky money resting in my back pocket?

Well...I think I'll get a latte at Starschmucks tomorrow morning before work.

Excellent ideas...

Thanks to all who responded to my last post regarding how to mitigate a bookstore turd. There were many excellent ideas, but Heather's was the best.

I quote, "Take $5, rub it across your ass a few times (before you leave the house, please) and pay him with that. Or, better yet, rim it!"

Thy will be done, Heather.

A full report to follow.

In a bind (of sorts)...

What to do.

You see this place above? It's Capitol Hill Books; located just outside the Eastern Market in southeast DC. For those unfamiliar, Eastern Market is an indoor/outdoor market servicing all your fresh veggies, meat, flora, and baking or cooking needs. It a great place where families run kiosks of every kind. You can get a fat old hot dog for $1.50, and a pound of thickly cut bacon for $4.00 (and this is serious shit, this bacon. No messing around whatsoever.) The market is a wonderful place to futz around for a couple of hours, get what you need for dinner or the week, and take it all in over a pint or a cup of coffee or tea. CHB is next to it; one of many small restaurants and shoppes to be enjoyed. It all makes for a great Sunday afternoon.

When you go in CHB, it's exactly as it appears from the outside, and pretty much as you would hope from an old used bookstore; the place is simply festooned in books. The front window is as the whole place is. Wherever there isn't a human body or a tiny bit of carpet to walk on, there are books. Thousands of wonderful books strewn over three floors to get lost in. I love it. I love to get lost in the cramped aisles for hours, searching out the next great read. I spend roughly $50 per month in $3.50-$6.00 books, and I love it. There's only one problem.

The owner is a jerk.

Well, I presume he's the owner. He a gentleman of some age, and every time I have ever been in there, he's sitting just inside the door, reading something; so, I presume he is Morton "Jim" Toole, as the card he hands you reads, the owner.

Why is he a jerk? When you walk in, he doesn't say hello. He doesn't say welcome, or any other sort of salutation. He doesn't even bother to lift his head from his reading. He simply says, "fiction's upstairs, reference is downstairs." That's it. It would be cute in a curmudgeonly way if he was an actual curmudgeon. He's not. He's a jerk, and I hate giving him my money. My father works too damn hard at giving people the best possible experience in our family camera store to take care of his family to patronize some, well, "Toole" that can't bother to give you the time of day when you are trying to support his establishment.

Right?

I am right, aren't I?

Here's the problem; there aren't too many other used bookstores of the ilk in DC. From a product delivery standpoint, his is excellent. I am right in wanting to cease patronizing him for the shabby way he treats his customers, right?

Opinions, please.

In the meantime, I will wrestle with this moral issue. If anyone can assuage my concerns, speak up, please. Also, if anyone knows of a good used bookstore in DC that cares when people come in, please let me know. I need a new one.

Thanks!

Oh, and here are a few recent books I've read that are worth checking out.

Lives of the Monster Dogs, Kirstin Bakis
Dirty White Boys, Stephen Hunter
A Death in the Family, James Agee
The Exorcist, William Peter Blatty
The Church of Dead Girls, Stephen Dobyns
Johnny Got His Gun, Dalton Trumbo

They're kind of all over the place in subject matter. All good stuff for different reasons, though.

Still greasy...

My friend Heather makes some cogent responses to my last entry. I suggest a New Englander's predilection to ask, "where do you live?" is ultimately aiming to figure out the likelihood of social assimilation; people are feeling you out to see if and how you will interact with thier tribe. I agree with Heather that, "I will determine how you were raised, your probable religion, your value system, and your schooling all based on your answer to that question," but I believe that is normal. We probe potential relationship candidates all the time; we do it when we're flirting, when we're applying for a job, when we meet new people...we're looking for commonalities to provide a rapport to build on. In D.C., unfortunately, it's like they're giving you a quick scan to see if you're worth any more of their time. In New England, it's like they're throwing you into the fire to see what comes out, and the degree of acceptance is directly tied to your burns. In D.C., it's like they pass an unseen metal detector over you to see if there is anything they can get from you. If a little beep goes off, they stay. If not, they move on to the next pile of sand drinking a martini in the room. It's the difference between finding a short-timer or even a one-night-stand (there), and trolling for a hooker (here).

ick.

Moral grease.

Disclaimer 1: I am NOT politically savvy by most standards. I am NOT in favor of any particular party. I am NOT in-the-know when it comes to politics. I am NOT up-to-speed with political bents or trends. I do NOT read political publications. I do NOT watch any of the myriad political shows on Washington DC. I'm not smart when it comes to politics, and I don't care to be. So, if you don't like what I'm about to say, find someone who gives a sh*t, m'kay?

Disclaimer 2: This entry is NOT inclusive of my few D.C. friends. AT ALL. It's sad to say I have so few friends in this city; If you are my friend and you live in D.C., my apologies.

Ok. Now...

As I was on the treadmill tonight, I caught the nauseatingly grandiose pomp and circumstance of the beginning of the state of the union speech on tv. The announcements. The fanfare. The fraudulent smiles and hand-shaking between peoples clawing each other's eyes out just weeks ago on the campaign trail. The little clusters of like-opined 'important people.'

And I felt, well...I guess I can't say it any better than saying I felt morally greasy.

I felt like the values my parents worked so hard to instill in us kids were useless here. I felt like this town pivots on manipulation, deceit, and self-service. I felt like the capital of my country is one of the worst examples I've ever experienced of what my country is actually about; if I were to escort a foreigner around my country (and I have, to a small extent. Hi, Aldo,) would I choose to take them to Washington?

Unfortunately, yes, I would. Begrudgingly, I would. I have to concede D.C. has some wonderful restaurants, top-quality museums, and gorgeous neighborhoods. I have to concede these are worth experiencing, and I would have to show my guest these sights for them to get the full monty of our background (seeing the actual Constitution is chilling, I say,) but I would do everything in my power to prevent them from talking to too many people or looking in too many shadows. It's in those shadows the fetid stench of this city lies.

I first noticed it when I began dating my (now) wife. She would take me around to quaint happy hours and introduce me to co-workers, friends, and the populace of her government career. With almost no exception, everyone's first question was, "so, what do you do?" They weren't asking out of curiosity or to make conversation; they were asking as part of an evaluation of my worth to them. I know this because, usually, the smile faded and the conversation ended quickly when I told them I managed a coffee shop. Now that I manage a bank, the interest level is at least maintained long enough to answer whether or not I can provide financial advice. Then, the glazed eyes and quick glances at the watch. Sickening.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention the almost suffocating sense of self-worth and entitlement this city has. All chiefs, no indians. Or, all butt and no toilet paper, ya know? Have you ever gone to a function where everyone walked around like the rod up thier ass had a rod up its ass? Well, multiply that by hundreds of thousands. I actually had someone yell at me (and I mean YELL) because I wouldn't allow him to perform changes on an account he forged for his mother AND son. He forged the signatures. Their names. His signatures on all three accounts (including his.) And, he's a fucking lawyer. And, he knew what he was doing was wrong. I'm the bad guy, I guess.

D.C. is a classless hack of a burg.

Morally greasy, I is.

Sigh.

Update.

As I mentioned earlier, the current reigning champion of beer on my heart, Belhaven, is in danger of being overthrown by either Miller High Life, or Hoegaarden. I promised to keep you appraised of my findings as they happen.

As it is situated currently, Belhaven is in the lead, with High Life and Hoegaarden fighting for second. It really depends on what time of year you ask me.

I can tell you this, though. I drank almost three pitchers of Yuenling last night during the game. In my book, it would barely crack the top 10. Maybe.

For those not in the know.

If you've never experienced Natalie Dee, you really should. She's brilliant in a really, really quirky way.

Out with the old, in with...

SPRING TRAINING in only 27 days!

Ok, ok. I admit, watching the Pats lose to the human advertising agency Peyton Manning because of such stupidity as Reche Caldwell dropping a pass with nobody covering him (nobody!) hurt. But, on to more important things! Baseball is coming, and for those of you in the know, here is the greatest baseball-related timekill ever. Enjoy.