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Nine months ago, I injured my finger while roughhousing with my six-year-old son.
(Most of you know this explanation isn't entirely true, but it's my new and improved and truncated account going forward. For the record: NO ONE loves to laugh at himself more than I do, but whenever I've gone into greater detail, the reactions from friends and co-workers has been what can only be called a cross between "skeptical" and "litigious" -- Wait…what? You poked your son with your finger? How hard do you have to poke him to tear a tendon? So, it'll be "roughhousing" from here on out.)
Almost two months ago, I finally had an MRI. In keeping with my new brief, but borderline truth-obfuscating explanations, the MRI went well.
Eleven days ago – some 260 days after the initial injury – a hand specialist spent 20 minutes with me and provided what four doctors before him couldn't: an accurate diagnosis.
(Admittedly, my medical expectations were tempered when my eye caught the unmistakable couch-sized sight of a dot matrix printer behind the desk of the specialist's receptionist. But, this doctor had obviously reallocated funds from 21st century administrative technology to extra night classes at Hollywood Upstairs Medical College.)
I'm the proud owner of a left pinky finger with a Boutonnière deformity – yes, like the flower a man wears on his lapel. And, I'd like to shout out everyone in my office who has brought back so many forced, unfunny floral jokes at my expense. It's been 25 years since Janet Wood last turned off the lights at her flower shop on Three's Company and equally as long since Hightower from Police Academy worked as a florist for strictly ironic reasons.
From the American Academy of Orthopedic Surgeons (AAOS) website:
Boutonnière deformity is an injury to the tendons in your fingers that usually prevents the finger from fully straightening. The result is that the middle joint of the injured finger bends down, while the fingertip bends back. Unless this injury is treated promptly, the deformity may progress, resulting in permanent deformity and impaired functioning.
Or, as my doctor succinctly stated:
"This is a complex injury. I wish we had treated you much sooner."
In fact, the AAOS website recommends treatment no later than three weeks after the injury or development of the deformity, ominously declaring it becomes "much more difficult to treat" after 21 days. I injured my finger in August 2009…am I still within the window?
The specialist didn't want to perform surgery before first sending me to 4-6 weeks of physical therapy. One thing I learned from last year's Samter's Triad Storyline: doctors are determined to exhaust every possible co-pay before considering surgery.
Last Thursday, I went to my first physical therapy session.
Now, I know that I've got some readers in the industry, so try not to retroactively laugh at my ignorance here: I was mildly surprised to find myself sitting in such close proximity to other patients receiving physical therapy. No walls, no curtains, no privacy. I was filling out paperwork while a woman – not more than 15 feet from me – was in tears from the work being done on her neck and shoulder.
My physical therapist walked me through my issues and I appreciated his candor with regards to the previous months of medical missteps ("You were being treated for the wrong injury.") and the likelihood that physical therapy would help me avoid surgery ("At best, it's 50/50.")
One more thing I appreciated: I was required to dip my left hand in paraffin wax and then cover it with a hot towel for 10 minutes. Afterwards, even though my finger still looked rigidly mangled, it temporarily felt loose and free for the first time in forever. Mrs. Bootleg later told me that she pays "good money" (from her part-time job) for paraffin wax treatments. I'm this close to going with her next time, just to resurrect that tired Chris Rock bit ("How much fo' one hand?!").
The physical therapist gave me a series of flexion/extension exercises to "stretch" the tendons and straighten out the finger. Friday morning, I performed these exercises for the first time. Initially, my finger turned purple – a "Black History Month" kind of accomplishment for an African-American – and then, my whole hand swelled like a latex glove filled with water.
The next few days haven't been nearly as bad, but tonight, Mrs. Bootleg had to turn away from the real-time color change that was occurring at the top of my injured digit.
I'm looking forward to holding my surgical scars just inches from her face in a few weeks months whenever.
Hoping my true m***af****s know...
This be the realest sh*t I ever wrote
--Makaveli, "Against All Odds"
Part I -- Part II -- Part III -- Part IV -- Part V -- Part VI
Monday, March 22
9:00 AM - It's been awhile since the last installment of this "7-Day Travel Diary" -- and it's been even longer since these trips actually happened -- so, I'll forgive you if you've forgotten that back in Part XXXIX (after we'd just touched down in Phoenix) my boss was frantically attempting to reach me on my cell phone. His voice mails included the standard "I'm your superior" intimidation-disguised-as-adjectives such as "critical", "imperative" and "urgent". I'm back in the office, so he and I can finally have the conversation I avoided for 48-72 hours.
Boss: "One of your customers was repeatedly trying to reach you while you were out last week."
Me: "I checked my phone. That customer called me FIVE times over a 30-minute period from 11:30 AM to 12:00 PM. As far as anyone knows, I could've been on my lunch hour. And, she was calling because SHE owed ME information. Her freaked-out response doesn't deserve this much attention."
Boss: "Just remember -- if you're going to be gone, make sure you have a delegate to work your desk, an out-of-office greeting on your phone and an auto-response set up on your email."
Me: "I did ALL of that! Why are you putting so much credence on a crazy woman's irrational ranting? She was trying to give me information and she could've left it on my voice mail."
9:30 AM - My boss and I went around and around on this for more than 15 minutes. I got back to my desk -- certain I wasn't in the wrong here -- and opened my email to find that in the time it took me to walk the 80 paces from my boss' office back to mine, he'd clicked "send" on an email that began:
"If you're going to be gone, make sure you have a delegate to work your desk, an out-of-office greeting on your phone and an auto-response set up on your email..."
And, he was courteous enough to send it to his entire staff.
Tuesday, March 23
12:00 PM - Back at the airport, flying to Las Vegas for a conference with my biggest customer. Layoff notices were issued earlier in the day and I was genuinely concerned. Unfortunately, one of my favorite people in the office was let go, while the only "change" in my employment status came in the form of a spot-on Vince McMahon impersonation left on the voice mail of my cell phone from one of my co-workers.
12:30 PM - I've always been torn on the black guy who shines shoes at the airport. Yes, he offers a much-needed service to pretentious, image-conscious business travelers such as me. On the other hand, I feel more than a little uncomfortable supporting one of the last surviving 1930s Negro archetypes. It's the same reason why I can't listen to any rapper who came out after 2004.
1:30 PM - Mother Nature makes up for an otherwise uneventful flight by creating a violently aggressive crosswind that invisibly bludgeons the sides of the airplane upon our descent. Most of y'all know that I'm already a lousy flyer -- the curse of growing up in the 1980s when every fourth or fifth flight seemed to get hijacked, crashed or was disintegrated by a vengeful Decepticon. It's a small miracle that I managed to keep my panic attack to myself. Someday soon, I will be forcibly sedated (NSFW!) on a flight.
2:30 PM - This is a map of the MGM Grand resort, where I'll be spending the next 24 hours. I needed to know the location of several large conference rooms and a few smaller company-specific business suites. Two dozen men and women are working the front desk so, of course, I end up with the one who greets me in unintelligible, heavily-accented English. The LAST thing I'd ever want to do is offend some of my readers by attempting to transcribe our exchange. Instead, I'll offend all of you by offering up this reasonable facsimile.
2:45 PM - There's a four-pack of wine coolers right outside my room. I'm not a 16-year-old high school sophomore named "Meagan" (or, for that matter, Mrs. Bootleg) so I leave the booze behind. Two bottles would be gone by the time I left my room a few hours later and the other two disappeared by the time I'd returned. Amoral activity in Sin City? Welcome to Obama's America.
5:30 PM - I have a LOT of work to fit into this evening and tomorrow morning, but my primary objective is to find some face time with the new contracts leadership group of the largest contract I manage. We'd played phone tag in the days leading up to the conference, but still hadn't synced up our schedules. So, imagine my surprise pissed-off'ed-ness when a high-ranking official from my company approached me downstairs:
"We need to talk. I just came out of a meeting with [the new contracts leadership group]."
For those scoring at home, this is the same executive who -- a week earlier -- had directed me to meet with this customer. Now, I'm getting kneecapped off my own contract.
6:30 PM - Still fuming, I lose my bearings long enough to stumble straight into the path of an Air Force Major who absolutely reams me (we work on the same program) as the two of us are pressed against a wall on the heavily-crowded concourse. He raises his voice above the din and, like any good military man, is loud enough for everyone to hear him, but scary enough for no one to dare look at him. We're off to a rip-roaring, rollicking start!
7:30 PM - Not to be outdone, I get verbally ambushed by a co-worker who cravenly waits until I'm out of my office and without any of his issue-specific files before he jumps all over me. Emboldened by his transparent attempt to look like a bad-ass at my expense, I get right into it with him. As far as business trips go, this one is slotting in right behind my excursion to Seattle in 1998. I spent a few hours in a bar, eating oysters, drinking scotch and smoking cigars. I spent the rest of that night doubled-over in full-spew, pelted by heavy rain in an alley behind the bar. For the rest of that business trip, I was alternating between various shades of green.
10:00 PM - Back to my room. In Las Vegas. BAC = 0.00, gambling losses = 0.00. And, I have to prepare for tomorrow's meetings. Your 11 1/2 year reign is over, 1998 Seattle. We have a new winner.
Wednesday, March 24
8:00 AM - The $13 room service breakfast burrito at the MGM Grand was, without hyperbole, the best thing about this trip. (Distant second = not getting fired.) It was as long as your arm and overstuffed with all the important parts of a pig (sausage, bacon and ham), hash browns, onions, green & red peppers, scrambled eggs, jalapeños and bucket-sized sides of guacamole, sour cream and fresh salsa. I obliterated every edible thing on that tray. (Grade: 500 (out of 5))
9:00 AM - I still haven't crossed paths with the contracts leadership group that I'm supposed to meet. Now, they're out-and-out ignoring my voice mails, so I break out Batman's deductive skill set. Based on previous discussions, I know I'm looking for three people: an older, more experienced hand and two younger contract administrators. Dozens of attendees are standing around sipping their morning coffee and lazily checking email on their laptops before the meetings commence.
9:30 AM - My hunch inexplicably pays off when I come across three people -- sitting together -- whose names on their Starbucks cups matches the names of my desired targets. I introduce myself and for the next hour -- by the relaxed standards of an informal, impromptu meeting -- blow their minds with my level of preparation and program knowledge. I haven't had this much job satisfaction since I could pour a perfect six-inch soft-serve cone when I managed that frozen yogurt shop in Long Beach, y'all.
7:00 PM - I'm back in San Diego when I realize I never picked up a gift for Mrs. Bootleg or the boy. Truth be told, I've driven 30 minutes north from the airport and I'm less than two miles from home when I realize this. Those of you who know my wife can follow-up if you wish, but I stopped at a drugstore and got Mrs. Bootleg this and got Jalen this. I am not making this up.
Then again, if you've made it this far, you already knew that.
It was one thing to be completely outclassed by the legions of more talented writers who had write-ups of the Lost finale completed almost as soon as the episode's end-credits were rolling last Sunday night. It was another to watch two bloggers who -- at different times -- have been my colleagues, co-pilots and inspiration completely knock it out of the park. If you haven't read the long-form Lost thoughts of Tom Daniels over at One New York Life and Joe Reid at Low Resolution, you're missing out.
Way to make my "Three Things..." format look like a sack of crap, by comparison. Jerks.
Three Things I Dug:
The Last 15 Minutes: By now, you've heard everyone else's criticism of the series-concluding church scene. It was either "too ambiguous", "not ambiguous enough" or -- my favorite "too sappy". There's a kernel of accuracy in all three points, I guess, but since the whole sequence was essentially an epilogue to the much, MUCH larger story, I felt free to appreciate it on its own (and without the context of the season-long flash-sideways machinations that ostensibly brought the viewers to this point). My real-time reaction, scene-by-scene: Locke forgives Ben (me: clenching jaw, won't allow myself to cry). Ben declines an invitation to join the rest of the cool island kids inside (me: shaking head, won't allow myself to cry). Ben and Hurley exchange contrived "you da man" platitudes (me: "meh"). Deceased Jack hugs his deceased father (me: not quite the emotional monsoon brought on by the Six Feet Under finale, but still a two-fisted shot to my tear ducts).
Dark Locke: Terry O'Quinn's performance this season was simply superb. He could've been played -- and written -- as a two-dimensional homicidal maniac and I doubt viewers would've blinked an eye. Instead, O'Quinn played the character with a burning fuse AND a nuanced, off-kilter code of honor. His threat to kill Rose and Bernard ("I'll make it hurt.") was blissfully cool and unemotional. I loved the look of silent paranoia in his eyes when Ben's walkie-talkie crackled with muffled static. And, the brilliant sadism in stabbing Jack just off the side of the abdomen -- ensuring a slow, painful bleeding out (as TV and movies have taught me over the years) -- was a pitch-perfect d*ck move in line with the character. I'm not gonna lie: I was rooting for him.
They Live: It was nice to see a handful of secondary characters make it off the island alive. Going into the finale, my fear was that the show would take one of two possible directions: (1) kill off everyone or (2) kill off everyone except Jack, Kate, Sawyer and Hurley. I suppose I could nitpick at the season-long underutilization of Miles or Lapidus' continued survival for convenience or Richard's motivation from self-loathing, but all three served a purpose in the endgame. And, in the "damning with faint praise" pantheon of television plot points, there's a window seat waiting for all three.
Three Things I Didn't Dig:
The Dialogue: Admittedly, I've beaten the dialogue point to death over the years. That said, I simply can't ignore groaners like Kate's "I saved one bullet for YOU!" declaration to Dark Locke after she popped one in his heart. And, while I've appreciated this show's wink-wink self-awareness at times, I thought Dark Locke's "You're the obvious choice!" quip in regards to Jack accepting the role of "new Jacob" was a little too cute for its own good.
The Running at Each Other Thing: Loved the Jack v. Dark Locke fight sequence. Hated seeing the two of them running right at each other just before the fight sequence started. It was a cheesy visual and eerily reminiscent of a popular ad campaign from 15 years ago. That Lost cut to a commercial right before the irresistible force collided with the immovable object only added to the cornball quotient.
A Few Plot Holes for the Road: I'm not a doctor, but I'd think the contents of a tranquilizer dart mixed with whatever number Sideways Charlie was likely to blow into a Sideways Breathalyzer at any given time should've killed him. And, how did the castaways get that big-ass tree off of Ben? And, how was Ben upright and walking -- his sternum seemingly intact -- after that big-ass tree fell on him?
The Verdict: On the one hand, I could quibble with the shove-it-down-my-throat establishment of the mythological components this season (or the series-long elements of unsolved mysteries) that was rendered moot with the overt "it was the CHARACTERS that mattered" theme from the series finale. Instead, I'll offer that Lost was a fun -- sometimes flawed -- ride that ended in a satisfying place for me. Can't ask for more than that.
Current Weight: 169.0 lbs.
Here are my five favorite salad dressings – in ascending order:
(5) – Trader Joe's Reduced Fat Cilantro: Even though this is (a) mass-produced salad dressing in a bottle; (b) reduced fat and (c) sans actual cilantro, Trader Joe's neon-green salad topping has been my infrequent lunch date for the past few years. Add this to any salad and mix in some cayenne-dusted chicken breast and tortilla strips. You'll thank me later. And, yes, I'm well aware that this salad dressing is actually a 25-year-old Canadian import.
(4) – Honey Mustard: You wouldn't know it from my emaciated frame, but I'm a big fan of those 2,000-calorie salads served at America's favorite casual dining restaurants. My favorite is pretty much any variation on the fried chicken salad. I think it's called "The Haystack" at Hard Rock Café and there are a few regional chains here on the west coast that call it a "country chicken salad". You're sure to be embarrassed if you're with me when I order one. I fork-dip each piece of deep-fried yard bird into the honey mustard dressing (which I always order on the side) and then drown my salad with the remaining dressing – that's now greasy and filled with breaded shrapnel. YUM!
(3) – Thousand Island: Considering I spent most of my pre-teen years in a long embrace with obesity, it's not surprising that some of my earliest childhood memories of my grandparents include Sunday dinner and their homemade thousand island dressing. I had to be the only six-year-old who looked forward to the side order of salad. Theirs was incredibly flavorful, wonderfully chunky and – on occasion – loaded with crumbled bacon. Years later, I was raving about this dressing to my girlfriend at the time. She could barely stifle her laughter before she broke my heart: "Thousand island? That's just ketchup, mayonnaise and a hard-boiled egg." You forgot an ingredient, Kelli. It's called "love". THAT'S why we're no longer together.
(2) – Caesar: In the rambling, non-review part of a previous food review, I mentioned that – at the behest of another then-girlfriend – I gave up red meat for a few years. At the time, the entrée-size Chicken Caesar salad became my restaurant fallback. Looking back, it's hard to believe I ever landed Mrs. Bootleg with the amount of garlic, parmesan, black pepper and – on occasion – anchovies that was on my breath. Fortunately, this was at the tail end of my college years and the not-so-subtle stank of Bud Ice or Rolling Rock usually cancelled out Caesar's scent.
(1) – Blue Cheese: I'd always been on good terms with blue cheese, but, growing up, we never really had it in my house. My dad was all about Italian dressing. Blue cheese was that fancy-dan condiment in the oddly-long jar with Bob's Big Boy and his checkerboard belly on the front. Back in 2002, while on a business trip to Austin, Texas, I was served something called a "blue cheese wedge" salad. I'd never had one before and I've never forgotten it since. Now, I don't even need it to be dressing. Show me a salad with crumbled blue cheese and I'm on board.
Speaking of which, have you heard about Wendy's new Bacon and Blue burger? (Hey, it only took about 500 words to get here.) According to Wendy's website:
Fresh, never frozen beef covered in real blue cheese crumbles layered with four strips of thick, fresh-cooked Applewood Smoked Bacon. Topped off with sautéed onions, a creamy steakhouse sauce, lettuce and tomato.
Blue cheese, bacon, sautéed onions and a creamy sauce of some kind. Together, this should've been the easiest "5" score ever achieved. Instead, this burger never really came together for me.
As usual, I'd ordered at the drive-thru window and hoped like hell that the 10-minute drive back to Stately Bootleg Manor would give the ingredients a chance to blend together and meld flavors. Unfortunately, the onions remained stiffly positioned atop the bacon, which – tragically – had no effect on the dry bits of blue cheese. The creamy sauce of some kind couldn't even be bothered to absorb into the bun. Everything was just…there.
Separately, the ingredients were decent enough, but this might be the biggest missed opportunity in "TBG Eats'" lightly-read run. In my heart, I believe there's greatness buried within this burger. I'm inclined to give it a second chance to impress me, but for now…
Grade: 3 (out of 5) Calories: 690 Fat: 42g
Because the above title sounds 10% sexier than "Some Random Guesses at What'll Happen on Lost Tonight". And, before any of you start rolling your eyes, I'd like y'all to remember that god-awful Mel Gibson/Julia Roberts thriller, Conspiracy Theory. Everyone thought Jerry Fletcher's wild-eyed accusations were no more than crazy-man ranting...until he was FINALLY right (about one thing out of, like, a bazillion).
Juliet = Sideways Jack's Ex-Wife -- Other than Entertainment Weekly's network-sanctioned post-episode write-ups of incessant positivity, I don't follow Lost all that closely on the interwebs. For all I know, this could be common knowledge. But, I first heard m'man Daniels propose this plot twist after Sideways Jack's son was revealed earlier this season.
Jack is NOT the 'Ch-Ch-Chosen One' -- Last week's "passing of the torch Manischewitz" scene between Jack and Jacob seemed...too convenient. There should be more conflict -- internal AND external -- with a decision that ostensibly orbits the entire point of the show. Jack won't end up as protector of the island, but the writers will frame it in such a way that makes him look better than whoever ends up as island champion. (I believe it's been 20 years, since Hollywood set the standard for this specific angle.)
Sideways Locke = New Jacob -- For you lemmings who don't believe this'll make a lick of sense, try to imagine it happening tonight on Lost and not as ill-informed conjecture from a lightly-read blogger looking to fill space on a Sunday morning. Hurley's my dark horse choice here. His "glad it wasn't me" line after losing out on last week's "new Jacob lottery" seemed like an obvious swerve set-up.
Ben = New Smokey -- This one's a stretch, I'll admit, but the "light v. dark" dynamic is the one constant surrounding the very existence of the island and someone's got to ascend (descend?) to the evil throne. I hesitate to commit fully to this idea, because Island Ben appears to be...up to something. I'm not sure his current motives are entirely evil...well, once you look past the whole "killing Widmore" thing. Ben seemed to intentionally wait to shoot Widmore until he (Widmore) told Dark Locke about Desmond -- thereby saving his daughter, Penny, in the process.
The Final Scene -- I read that the writers had mapped out the series' final scene not long after negotiating the end date with ABC. Would I put it past them to lift the opening sequence from the season five finale? The one that showed Jacob and The Man in Black having a pleasant conversation on the beach while politely establishing their immortal "Road Runner v. Wile E. Coyote" relationship? Just put Locke and Ben in those roles and quick-cut to black. There ya go.
I Don't Hate Disneyland Anymore -- In late December 2006, just before Jalen's third birthday, Mrs. Bootleg and I took the boy to Disneyland. You... might've read about the experience. This time, we didn't go during any of the standard "California-kids-are-out-of-school" stretches like Christmas vacation, spring break or my home state's three-dozen randomly scheduled and ill-defined "teacher workshop" days. In addition, Jalen's watched enough National League baseball while living in San Diego and better appreciates extended waits for something -- anything -- to happen. As a result, he was much more accepting of an occasionally moderate line for a ride. Most importantly, Mrs. Bootleg took her figurative foot off the gas pedal and refrained from her usual attempts to force "family fun, fun, FUN!" down our throats.
Disneyland is Infinitely MORE Fun with Two Families -- Mrs. Bootleg intentionally scheduled this trip on the same weekend that my Oakland A's were playing the hated Angels just a few miles from The Happiest Place on Earth. She even pre-stamped my kitchen pass and OK'd two evening outings to Angel Stadium, including a Friday night game that started at 7:05 PM. This posed a problem, as I felt a tinge of guilt over abandoning my family to meet m'man Smitty. Thankfully, one of Mrs. Bootleg's girlfriends drove up from San Diego that afternoon with her twin boys (and Disneyland season passes) in tow. I got my baseball game and the wife got her all-day (and most of the night) theme park excursion. Win-win (assuming one throws out the final score of the baseball game).
Disneyland's Coffee is Crazy Good -- I didn't have a chance to make a pot before we hit the road last Friday; so I ordered a cup of coffee with my lunch at an island-themed restaurant called "Pizza Oom Mow Mow" over on the California Adventure side of the park. (This was authentic island cuisine that included descriptive words such as "cowabunga", "tubular" and "Big Kahuna" on the menu. And, served pizza.) The coffee was richly roasted, strong but not bitter and hotter than Hades. I'd put it amongst my top five coffees, alongside the dark roast from Dunkin' Donuts, the Pike's from Starbucks and "the coffee from that one place that no one knows about that's SO much better than the 'corporate coffee' running all the independent brewers out of business!" That about cover it, coffee snobs?
I'll Soon be Blogging about my Bad Back -- There's a ride at California Adventure called Mulholland Madness. On the 10-point roller coaster scale of crazy, it's a solid "5": no loops, a few dips, some crazy-sharp turns and very kid-friendly. We rode it twice. Here's the face that Mrs. Bootleg was making during the first fall. Here's what Jalen had to say after our second ride: "It made my penis feel funny." It's been a week and my back is still barking a bit. A weekend filled with long car rides and cramped ballpark seats didn't help, so for those of you who continue to respectfully inquire "what ailment are you going to incessantly b*tch about THIS year, p***y?", now you know. Wait a minute...that's not respectful at all!
There is Nothing "Live" About Seeing the Oakland A's Offense Live -- On Friday night, our cleanup hitter entered the game with two home runs. Our number three hitter was slugging .402. Our designated hitter was a 24-year-old rookie with just 24 career plate appearances under his belt. Joe Saunders and his 6.19 ERA took the mound for the Angels. In just a tick over two hours, Saunders -- whose ERA was 8.31(!) in his previous four starts -- shutout the A's on four hits. Smitty and I weren't entirely sure the sun had completely set as we left the stadium.
We Can't Let 'Sick Jalen' Infect Another Vacation -- I inexplicably beat Mrs. Bootleg and the boy back to our room on Friday night. Jalen was exhibiting all of his usual "'bout to catch a cold" symptoms: machine-gun sneezes, dazed lethargy and quarts of congestion. Mrs. Bootleg doesn't always like to fill Jalen full of drugs, but...well, y'see...I'd already paid for two tickets to Saturday night's A's/Angels game. I needed a reasonably-healthy Jalen to at least give me five innings (an official game!) so that Mrs. Bootleg could get a break and so I could realize some return on my sleep-inducing investment. In summary, we drugged Jalen up pretty good on Friday and then bought more meds at a CVS on Saturday morning.
The Cheesecake Factory Should Only Serve Cheesecake -- I've probably eaten a half-dozen meals at The Cheesecake Factory and I've never once been impressed. The food's eminently edible, but it's not worth the crazy-long wait for a table (usually more than 60 minutes here in San Diego). We stayed within walking distance of a Cheesecake Factory in Anaheim, so we did Saturday lunch there with no wait. The picture above is all that remained from my 10-inch breakfast burrito. On my "TBG Eats" scale, it was probably a 2 or 2.5 -- filled with an unexceptional chicken chorizo that had the look and texture of Snausages.
I was starving, though, so I swallowed it whole. The Key Lime cheesecake remains my go-to dessert here: creamy green in color, tangy and tart in taste. It might sound like I'm describing an infectious disease, but...y'know, I really have no retort here.
I'm a Good Father! -- Jalen was about 80% when we left for the ballpark late Saturday afternoon. When we arrived, we stood alongside the first base line as A's third baseman Kevin Kouzmanoff warmed up by running in short bursts back and forth from foul to fair territory. He came over to sign for the small crowd of fans and Jalen gently pushed and shoved his way to the front of the group. Kouzmanoff not only brushed off the usher's "tut-tutting" of Jalen's exuberance, but he happily complied with Jalen's freaked-out request to sign the ball in ballpoint, not Sharpie ("Use MY pen!"). As Jalen turned to leave, I gave him the standard "now, what do you say?" prompting, to which Kouzmanoff responded, "Oh, he said 'thank you'. Don't worry, you're a good dad. You taught him well." AIEEEEEEEEEEEE! (After the game, another dad who'd brought his kids to the game and sat right in front of us, walked up to me and said, "You did a great job with your son, tonight." Since he's not playing for my favorite team, his words meant a little bit less to me.)
I Can Predict the Apocalypse -- The A's starting pitcher for the evening was supposed to be Justin Duchscherer -- fresh from the disabled list after injuring his left hip in late April. I watched him play long-toss with catcher Landon Powell before the game and noticed that his long-tosses were coming up a few feet short. I didn't think much of it and Duchscherer was introduced during the pre-game with the rest of the A's starters. Then, as the A's took the field in the bottom of the first, rookie reliever Tyson Ross took the mound -- Duchscherer had been scratched with a flare-up of his hip injury. I'd never, ever, ever been more certain of a blowout loss and said as much to Jalen. Sure enough, A's manager Bob Geren left Ross in for an inning too long and Chad Gaudin was tasked with "taking one for the team" in a long-relief appearance so bad that he was DFA'd the next day. 12-3, Angels. But, I did a great job with my son, tonight. Can I trade that for 10 more runs?
Don't Schedule "Little League Day" during a Dodgers v. Padres Game -- After two ballgames in Anaheim and a trip to Disneyland, Mrs. Bootleg was convinced that we could drive back down to San Diego in the morning and make the 11:30 AM Little League parade around the field at the Padres' Petco Park (which would precede my third game in three days). Players from every Little League team from every Little League district in San Diego County comingled with the usual 30,000+ that a Dodgers v. Padres game brings. When we were told that no more teams could march; Mrs. Bootleg threw our group into the moving queue of kids, practically daring security to stop her. The scene inside was equal parts family picnic and prison riot (Dodgers fans, represent!). I still managed to grab one good mug shot, though.
Three Things I Dug:
A Glass of Lemonade: The brief scene with Dark Locke and Ben sitting on the front porch of a home smack dab in the middle of the former Dharma Initiative community was wonderfully performed. On the one hand, there was Locke -- now the embodiment of evil -- offering up the island to Ben if he agreed to kill "some people" as casually as one would broker a trade of baseball cards. On the other hand, watching the manipulative, self-serving wheels turning in Ben's head was like seeing an old homicidal friend again. The dialogue was sparse, but succinct and it's good to know that the endgame -- to some degree -- will feature more of the complex Locke/Ben dynamic.
Welcome Back, Ben: My favorite Ben moment of the week had nothing to do with killing, betrayal or any of his other defining characteristics. Early on, as Richard is helpfully filling in the plot gaps for Widmore and Zoe, Ben shoots his former right-hand man this sideways look of incredulity. Ben's always been about holding the upper hand and it was good to see Widmore bring out the worst in him. Oh, and the killing and betrayal! Glorious! Not since the climactic scene of Superman II -- when Lex Luthor realigned with General Zod after a brief, whispering allegiance with the Man of Steel -- has a backstabbing been more instantaneous. Take that, Widmore! And, goodbye, Zoe! I'm sure the writers would've kept your annoying character around longer, but they ran out of objects for you to pop out from behind.
Sideways: While I'm still not entirely on board with one man (Desmond) serving as the Oceanic class reunion coordinator, I'm appreciative of the monumental leap forward in plot. Weird, though, that for all the "Oceanic character connections" that were established via flashbacks in the first few seasons, almost all of them were red herrings.
Three Things I Didn't Dig:
Desmond Beats Ben: It wasn't so much the particular scene, as it was the reason behind it. Desmond's trying to get all the sideways characters to remember their respective island experiences. But, what's with the...randomness of Desmond's methods? He plays love connection with Hurley and Libby; he runs over Locke in a parking lot; he nags Claire in a law office lobby. I dunno. Overthinking? Probably.
Creepy Boy Jacob: Yeah...the fewer reminders of last week's episode, the better.
Last Week's Episode: With a week's worth of hindsight, I'm having a harder time even understanding the point of "Across the Sea". During this week's fireside chat (where Jacob's terrifically d*ckish "your lives sucked, you were all flawed" exposition was delivered) everything about the light at the center of the island and the sketchy origin of the smoke monster was revealed. Even with the extra bit of background on both points -- and these are the MAIN points as we careen towards the climax -- I still don't think most of last week was even necessary. Jacob's speech this week could've easily stood alone.
The Verdict: I didn't have room to mention the sideways return of Rousseau, which had me smiling from ear-to-ear. Just a hell of an episode and the right amount of momentum has been generated for EVERYONE to be bitching about the series finale on Monday morning. I kid. See y'all, Sunday night!
