Nick Canepa Can Kiss My Black Ass

Some quick San Diego Fun Facts: The average temperature in March is 66.7 degrees. We have the sixth lowest crime rate in America and the smallest murder rate among cities with populations greater than one million. In a completely unrelated note, only 10.8% of the population is African-American.

San Diego also happens to have the worst sports writing in America.

Nick Canepa is the septuagenarian scribe for our ultra-conservative, right-wing rag The San Diego Union-Tribune. He's one of those whiny old white guys who surely starts every sentence with phrases like "Back in my day…" and ends them with "…(racial epithet, plural) knew their place."

Today, he's covering the colossally uninteresting non-story of the Chargers' new uniforms. With apologies to my friends at Fire Joe Morgan, it's time for some TBG-ery (Canepa's words are in italics):

Sportswriters, as a rule, are not clotheshorses, merely horses.

I actually had to look up "clotheshorse" in the dictionary, kids. I consider myself what Canepa would call "a well-spoken, articulate Negro", but I'd never heard this word before today. In my dictionary, I found the year 1775 listed next to "clotheshorse" which, according to the good people at Merriam-Webster, is its first recorded use.

(And, likely the last, according to my vernacular calendar.)

Sure, there are stallions among our breed of nags. As excellent examples, my natty colleagues Jim Trotter and Kevin Acee dress for football games as if they've just arrived from their weddings. Not that there's anything wrong with that. They're quite stunning.

I tried my best to confirm that both Trotter and Acee are Black, but I'm only reasonably sure about Trotter. Of course, the "brothers" are all snappy dressers, aren't they, Nick? With their conks and zoot suits and 23-skadoos…

But I know what looks good; although I also know clothes don't make the football player, either. Put the 2006 Raiders in Vera Wang jerseys, Dolce & Gabbana trousers, Salvatore Ferragamo shoes, accessorize with Gucci helmets, and you're still going to have your basic silver and black – and two wins.

Oh, snap! Was that Raiders-bashing?! How sneaky and unique! Speaking of wins, here's how many wins the Raiders had in January: zero. Now, here's how many wins the Chargers had in January: zero.

Of course, only the Chargers played in January, but you already knew that.

Al Davis is not Al Lauren. What would Mr. Blackwell do to Big Al? White leisure suits and that "Mean Streets" hair-do? Al, wake up and smell the Donna Karan – and stay off the red carpet, where Joan Rivers' face will break if she sees you.

Wait…when did Joan Rivers and Al Davis become fodder for bad comics? Why didn't I get this memo? Have we been allowed to bash them since the start of 2007 or was this bill signed into law sometime sooner?

As you may have guessed, I never had attended a fashion show until yesterday afternoon, when the Chargers threw one at the revamped, posh, U.S. Grant Hotel, to unveil their new uniforms. And, yes, there was a runway in the room, like the one Lucy Ricardo walked when she wore that Don Loper tweed suit in Hollywood.

I Love Lucy debuted on October 15, 1951.

The uniform change was a long time in the making. Chargers COO Jim Steeg, not exactly Fred Astaire, came up with the idea…

Fred Astaire was born on May 10, 1899. And, wasn't he famous for dancing, not "clotheshorsing"? I'll ask my grampy for a ruling on this.

He did good. The Chargers didn't get fashion stupid, like Denver or Seattle.

Total Super Bowl wins for the Denver Broncos since they changed their uniforms in 1997 to their current style: 2

Total Super Bowl appearances for the Seattle Seahawks since they changed their uniforms in 2002 to their current style: 1

Total Super Bowl wins and/or appearances for the San Diego Chargers since 1997: 0

True. It was time, which as noted in "Citizen Kane," waits for no football player, but part of the reason was because the previous unis were not striking.

Citizen Kane was released on May 1, 1941. Way to keep it timely, Nicky. And, I'm pretty sure that no "football player" is mentioned in the movie, unless you were trying to be funny. To that, I say stick with the ubiquitous "Rosebud" quote if you're looking for comedic source material.

It worked for Orson Welles' "Rosebud" frozen peas. They're full of country goodness and green pea-ness…!

And so the fashion show began, with team radio tonsil/MC Josh Lewin calling this "a monumental moment . . . historic." Sort of like Pearl Harbor.

The Pearl Harbor bombing happened on December 7, 1941. The Pearl Harbor movie (A Jerry Bruckheimer Production/A Michael Bay Film) was released on May 25, 2001. I'm pretty sure Canepa was referencing the bombing.

Football unis are like Twinkies (not on yesterday's menu). It's what's inside.

Twinkies were invented on April 6, 1930 and haven't been relevant as a societal pop culture reference since the soft, phallic junk food experienced a minor uptick in popularity during the 1970s when Hostess introduced mascot "Twinkie the Kid" in 1971.

You stay classy, Nick Canepa.

Jerk.

The Wiggles: Live in Concert!

Way back on January 30, 2004, I wrote the following words that appeared in my old Friday Music Bootleg column:

As with all child parties these days, there's a theme. For this kid's first birthday, the entire shindig will revolve around something called The Wiggles. Click on that link and suffer right along with me.

Eight days later, my son Shabazz Jalen was born and it wouldn't be long before The Wiggles exacted their revenge for my dismissive mocking.

Today, these aging Aussies invade my home daily, accompanied by the tag team power of The Disney Channel and DVR. Mrs. Bootleg dresses the boy in overpriced Wiggles pajamas before shoving him into criminally expensive Wiggles bed sheets, where she then reads from the $6.99 set of Wiggles books I bought for the boy on clearance at Barnes & Noble.

Don't look at me like that. After the kindly book barista made change for my $10, I was certain that the Bootleg Family owned everything related to The Wiggles.

All that was left was to spend exorbitant amounts of cash and have nothing tangible to show for it.

So, for the boy's 3rd birthday, I sprung for three seats to Racing to the Rainbow: The Wiggles – Live in Concert! And, for the record, that ostentatious exclamation point was my exact reaction in the aftermath of spending $37.50/ticket, plus another $8.00/ticket in service and handling fees. Do the math for yourselves. I'm sure it'll make your projectile shame for me that much more palpable.

Yesterday, we attended the first of a two-show performance at the Cox Arena on the campus my alma mater, San Diego State University.

The arena and adjacent parking structure are literally right next door to "sorority row". And, I have no doubt that all of the gorgeous, academically-committed future administrative assistants of America were scared straight after seeing what childbirth does to one's body.

Good luck with that psychology degree, Sarah.

Ditto for yours in dance, Cindy.

Infants, toddlers and parents were everywhere. This surprised me since I assumed the 3:00 PM show would create an inherent nap time conflict with most of the kids. And, yes, I discussed this theory at length with my wife before deciding on which show to see. Great use of her MBA, don't you think?

Anyways, we scaled our way down the side-of-the-cliff incline (or is it "decline"?) to our seats and I immediately discovered what the most expensive tickets in the arena are worth.

We were 15 rows back and to the right of the stage.

Wait, that doesn't quite do it justice.

We were 15 rows back and to the extreme right of the stage.

OK, this'll help…stand up at your computer. Now, take one step sideways to your right. Then, take one step forward, so that you're now essentially parallel to your screen. If you're doing this correctly, you shouldn't be able to see your screen at this point.

Now, turn 90 degrees to your left and sit down. You'll notice that if you crane your neck, you might be able to see 50% of your screen.

Good times.

Credit it where it's due, though…for the next 90 minutes, The Wiggles and their deliciously leggy dancers (just right for daddy) kept the kiddies entertained.

Some of the highlights:

-The show started about 15 minutes late, which was fine by me. I mean, we might as well teach the children about this ubiquitous characteristic of concerts while they're still young. But, when the show finally began, there was a five-minute speech on "safety". Y'know…don't lose your kids, don't let 'em climb up on stage, etc. Then, there was the 10-minute translation of this speech in Spanish.

-Why do I think that the español warnings weren't included on the Toledo tour stop, though?

-Speaking of Spanish, The Wiggles made a point of thanking everyone who came to the show "all the way from Mexico". For those of you who don't find that funny, I'd like to offer up this helpful link to illustrate the hilarity. I'm pretty sure that we drove farther to get there.

-Jalen spent the first 45 minutes trying to figure out if this was a live show or one hell of an HD TV. He's only known The Wiggles inside of the idiot box. And, now they were right in front of him. He refused to dance, sing or acknowledge their presence until he could confirm their existence. This doesn't bode well for bible study, someday.

-Shockingly, I wasn't the only Black father in attendance. Was I the only one who had a job to take the day off from? Oh, of course not. I think.

-There were lots of requests from The Wiggles for audience participation. Most notably, we were asked to flip open our cell phones while the house lights were turned down for "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star". Y'see, here's the thing…after spending as much as I did for the tickets, I already feel like a tool. Now, they want me to be a prop? F*ck that noise.

-You know what I discovered, yesterday? Kettle corn! Mrs. Bootleg bought a bag that was nearly as big as the boy. I always assumed it was part of the Cracker Jack and Crunch n' Munch family of sickeningly sweet, sticky popcorn products. But, oh, how wrong I was. It's sweet, but not too sweet. Think of it as the Jack & Coke of confections.

-The lead singer of The Wiggles used to be a guy named Greg Page. Last year, he was diagnosed with a very serious illness and was forced to leave the group. Before the show, a pre-taped message was shown where he thanked fans for their support and expressed how much he enjoyed his career. He was actually tugging a few heartstrings in the audience (not mine, though…just allergies). At the end, he made a point of handing over his yellow Wiggles shirt to his replacement. This lightened the mood for me, because he called his long-sleeved mock turtleneck shirt a skivvie. Doesn't he know what that means in America? He was handing over his underwear!. Eww! (I'm 33-years-old.)

-At the end of the show, it was time to spend even more of next month's mortgage payment on Wiggles merchandise. This made Jalen even more hyper-excited, so he took off running down the concourse. As I handed over an Andrew Jackson for a plastic Wiggles lightstick, the boy's mother was in low-speed pursuit. Understandable, considering the crowd of people and how easily a small child can disappear. A few minutes later, the two of them came back. Jalen had split open his bottom lip from taking a fall while crowd surfing. Jalen's mother had the refreshed look of a woman who didn't want to run too fast after her son for fear of scuffing her new shoes or sweating out her hairdo.

"I gotta say it was a good day."

*Sigh*…Again With the Biggie

The Notorious B.I.G. died today.

Again.

For the 10th straight year (Or is it the 11th…?)

I spent ten minutes in my car this morning with the increasingly exasperating XM Radio. As part of their day-long "tribute" to the Notorious B.I.G., I heard the end of a year-old interview with his money-whore mother, Voletta (who was only there to hype the posthumously putrid Duets album). From there, the satellite station jumped into Christopher Wallace's catalog with the tracks Spit Your Game and Nasty Girl.

They shoot horses station managers, don't they?

My point is that there simply isn't any blood left to leech out of this fat, black turnip.

And, all of the annual early-March maudlin memories of the man deserve four bullets of their own.

Why won't any of his fans recognize what m'man Nick'a Please calls the 800-lb. elephant in the room? At the time of his death, The Notorious B.I.G. had long since segued into self-parody. The gritty, honest stories of his youth (well, 1993-95) were replaced with cartoonish Tony Montana tales of excess and ridiculously cheesy reaches for radio.

His Life After Death album, an overstuffed and egocentric mess, could've left 10-12 tracks on the cutting room floor and still not come close to earning all the accolades it received. It's a decidedly average album, kids. I said it then and I'm saying it now.

Here's something else I said back then…on the night he died, why was Biggie even in L.A. to begin with?

Yeah, sure…he was promoting his new album. He was shooting a music video. He was presenting at an awards show. And, again, I ask…why was he even out here in Cali?

I know, I know…if Biggie can't fly across the country then the terrorists have won (or something). But, in the months after Tupac's death, the West Coast's abhorrence for all things East Coast went from "indifference" to "Hit 'Em Up".

Now, I'm not saying that Biggie deserved to die, but would it have been the worst thing in the world for Bad Boy Entertainment to allow for California to cool off a bit? Biggie chose to conveniently forget his role as a significant shit-stirrer in the whole "media-created" bi-coastal beef, but everyone out west remembered his inciting words on NY radio prior to The Dogg Pound's New York, New York video shoot. No pun intended.

In the eyes of many, Bad Boy's trip to Los Angeles was nothing more than a victory lap on Tupac's ashes. And, again, I don't agree…but, I understand.

Look…I get that there's a small, but vocal group of fans who truly believe that B.I.G. was the greatest rapper of all time. I'm saying they're wrong…that would be Jay-Z. Those same fans say that B.I.G. was the most influential rapper of all time. I'm saying they're wrong on that, too…that would be Tupac (and that's not a compliment).

Biggie was great for a minute, very good for a few more and he's been dead for 10 years.

What your radio takes a day to say, I just said in 10 seconds.

Meet My Links - Deadspin

So, in the two or three weeks since I posted my last one of these, I've added another link (Welcome, The Luke!) and completely forgot who was next under the "Meet My" microscope. A quick check of the archives tells me that Deadspin is officially on the clock.

Deadspin

Synopsis: Billing itself as "sports news without access, favor or discretion", Deadspin is quite simply the most biting, caustic and comically subversive sports site on the internet. Editor Will Leitch post several times a day (from about 8:00 AM to 5:00 PM) during the week, while the weekend editors keep it coming on Saturdays and Sundays. Yesterday, there were posts mocking the Ron Artest domestic abuse 911 call, another on the similarities between Eli Manning and the Black president on 24 and still another on forecasting the NIT. It's like picking "potpourri" on Jeopardy!

Positives: When everything is clicking, it's easy to get lost for hours on Deadspin. In fact, there might be too much going on here as each story is usually linked to two or three source stories, which, in turn leads to previous Deadspin posts on the same subject matter. The writing is almost always snarky without ever removing its tongue from its cheek and it doesn't take long for readers to "get" what amounts to one long, daily inside joke. And, for the truly sophomoric amongst us, it's your one-stop-shop for gratuitous groupie nudity, pictures of pro athletes up to their ass in alcohol and gossipy tales about "Chris Berman, Caveman Pimp".

Negatives: Though this might be clichéd…Deadspin was a lot more fun before everyone knew about it. Profiles in Sports Illustrated and ESPN The Magazine let the unwashed masses in on our party. Consequently, Deadspin's ubiquitous quotes and catchphrases began seeping into the mainstream. This must be how my friends at Broken Dial feel when their favorite indie acts go all VH1 on everyone. Another residual effect of Deadspin's popularity is the absolute explosion in the number of douchebag users/commenters. Threads on genuinely interesting subject matter can quickly devolve into flame wars, homophobia or race baiting and usually by the third or fourth post.

One Sentence Summary: If you're a sports fan and aren't (or are) visiting Deadspin at least twice a day, you'll surely burn in hell…

Next Week: Baseball Prospectus

TBG Reviews: Carl's Jr's Buffalo Chicken Sandwich

Fifteen years ago, I was a fiend for fast food.

Burgers, fries and a refillable beverage were all I needed for sustenance. All the while, my metabolism handled the heavy internal lifting. These days, fast food is no longer my friend. Oh, I still nab a greasy sack of crap from time to time, but I'm at the age now where propaganda tools like Fast Food Nation and Supersize Me actually work.

Obviously, they didn't work that well, but the notion that fast food is intended to be only an occasional meal has stuck and stayed with me. Oddly enough, I remember first hearing that speech from my mother in the early '80s and now, 25 years later, I've come full circle to "acceptance".

It hasn't helped the restaurants' cause that most fast food establishments entrust food preparation and sanitary standards with kids only 10 years removed from eating their boogers. And, it also hasn't helped that my metabolism's allegorical work ethic has gone from "illegal immigrant" to "American" over those same 10 years.

But, I still have my weaknesses.

One of them is "damn fine marketing". Check out this commercial for Carl's Jr's new Buffalo Chicken Sandwich. The other is for pretty much anything edible that's preceded by "Buffalo".

Now, in the interest of alleviating any argument, I acknowledge that the only place on earth that knows anything about Buffalo wings is Buffalo, NY. In fact, I'm sure I was supposed to capitalize the "w" in wings back in the last sentence, so sue me.

Of course, I've never been to Buffalo, but they're a proud, Arctic race without much in the way of any real local accomplishments to celebrate, so let's give them their "wings". Aren't they just precious? Oh, and kudos, Buffalo, for belatedly climbing aboard the Civil Rights bandwagon.

"A colored mayor? That'll be the day." - 1985's Back to the Future and 1759-2005's Buffalo, NY

OK…with that out of the way, let's get to the sammich.

For those of you who don't know, Carl's Jr. is "Hardee's" pretty much anywhere else in the other three time zones. If that doesn't help, think of them as "Burger King Lite": charbroiled burgers, but with leanings to more gimmicky grub like their Philly Cheesesteak Burger and Pastrami Burger (a hamburger with Steak-Umms and pastrami on top, respectively).

And, for $3.29, Carl's serves up a heavy hunk of hen that's drenched in Frank's RedHot sauce. Consequently, the chicken breading is predictably mushy, but still full of the flavor of Frank. One thing that I will agree with those sanctimonious Buffaloans on is that blue cheese dressing is what one eats with wings. But, here, the perfect amount of ranch dressing works surprisingly well. I've had two of these in the past week and both times the amount wasn't enough to overwhelm the meat, yet still kept the contents from tasting too dry. Lettuce, tomato and red onion finish off the top of the filet.

Even considering the "fast food fare" grading curve, this is a good-ass sammich. It maintains its texture from beginning to end, without morphing into an inedible mess of soggy bread and meat like pretty much anything on Wendy's menu. Carl's Jr. still needs to work on their off-tasting, overly-chewy buns, but after two decades of choking them down, I'm used to them.

It's rare that a new menu item breaks my "Only order what I like/Only order what I know" rotation, but for now I'll need someone to tell the Jalapeño burger to go wait in the car.

I've got a new bitch, now.

WWE Smackdown TV Taping - The Obligatory Wrestling Post (Part II)

Joining me for the evening of sports-entertainment would be longtime Friend of the Bootleg, "That Mexican Guy" (who would probably prefer that his real name, Mike Castro, not be used). There was Austin, who once got us thrown out of a strip club by inappropriately touching a dancer. His excuse, "I thought she told me to." Seriously. And, finally, a dude named Jose, who came with the other Mexican guy.

And, with a 50% Hispanic factor in our favor, I'd like our odds in case the crowd broke out into little mini-race wars in factions of four.

Now, it's no secret that San Diego's southernmost border is about 10 minutes from Mexico. Most of this country has shifted its irrational racial hatred from Blacks (years 1619-1988), to the Japanese (1988-90), back to Blacks (1990-2001), over to Muslims, Middle Easterners or any Blacks who looked Muslim or Middle Eastern (2001-2006), then, finally found Mexicans (2006-current).

Well, we've always had 'em down here and nights like this bring out generations for a celebration of their colorful culture. And, to watch wrestling.

Wading through a legit sellout crowd at the San Diego Sports Arena ipayone Center (worst corporate arena name ever), I felt like Snoop Dogg in the Vato video.

Wrestling fans are often stereotyped as some sort of sub-human species (regardless of race) and, I gotta tell you…this stereotype is right.

Grown men were wearing those replica belts, around their waists, in public. Grown men were lugging so much crudely scrawled poster board, that a separate entrance was required for anyone with "10 or more signs". And, four grown men laid down $200 between 'em for the chance to sit eight rows from the ring.

The f/k/a Sports Arena was built in the early 1970s and everything from the toilets to the architecture to the ticket takers haven't been cleaned or kept up since the first season of Alice. If this place were built in New York or Boston, it'd be called "historic". Here in Cali, it's just "sh*t".

We had seat numbers 5, 6, 7 and 8…and all four seats were a different shape and color. It was like part of a dining room set from "The Compton Collection". And, taking a cue from my college days, the Arena was practically pitch-black, save for a bank of lights over the ring.

And, just like I discovered in college, there's not enough darkness on earth to hide the ugly of whatever you happen to be inside of on any given night.

The tapings were broken up into two shows: ECW and Smackdown. For those of you who abhor wrestling, please don't make me explain the difference between the two. It would involve words like "extreme", "cruiserweights", "pirates" and "vampires". For the sake of brevity, the difference tonight is that ECW was taping first.

You can find the results of the show right here, courtesy of America's angriest white man. Meanwhile, some quick thoughts from me:

-Lots and lots of kiddies in the audience. I'm talking 8-years-old and younger. Not to sound like one of "those" parents, but who lets pre-teens watch this crap? There were actually kids, right behind us, explaining gimmicks and storylines to their parents. To summarize, when I was a kid, TV was safe and fun…today it's a creation of Satan. Gordon Jump, you took away a nation's innocence. You, too, 9/11 terrorists.

-Watching a faction called the "ECW Originals" come down the aisle, I wondered aloud if pro wrestlers could be considered the equivalent of "ringers" in those department dead pools. While everyone else is picking Goldie Hawn or John Wooden, why not surprise your friends by calling Sabu? Pretty much free money, if you axe me. Oh, and RIP Mike Awesome. He was 42. I'm just' sayin'.

-Some guy named "Kevin Thorn" was in the first ECW match. He's one of the wrestling vampires I referenced earlier. And, as with most guys with sh*tty gimmicks, he's paired with a buxom valet. In this case, his second is named "Ariel". Points for her showing off her man-made cleavage, but she might have the lumpiest ass this side of a St. Louis music video.

-Next match: CM Punk vs. Johnny Nitro. I can't be bothered to get worked up over either of these guys, but can I tell you…Nitro's valet Melina is pure, uncut cocoa butter beauty. The ringside fans shared my animalistic lust for her, but they were far less classy with their words. After the match, she pointed out a few fans who were especially profane and security led them out. Sorry, Melina, but dressed like that, you had it coming. Whore.

-Now is as good a time as any to point out that these live TV tapings can be quite the chore to sit through. The show lasted a little over three hours and the production crew ran that "Tribute to the Troops" promo no less than a half-dozen times. The See No Evil and The Marine commercials ran all night, as well. Finally, they ran the trailer for Stone Cold Steve Austin's new movie. Even the unwashed degenerates around me couldn't help but comment on how bad it looked. Wrestling fans finding something that might actually be unwatchable? It's Bizarro World.

-Funniest line of the night that no one will get: "How many 300-pound sons did Mrs. Wallace have?", from Jose after watching Bobby Lashley's mom in that "inspirational" piece on Lashley that's been running for a few weeks now.

-It takes about 10 minutes to convert the set from ECW to Smackdown, so during this break in the action I should mention that I actually got some emails from people who told me that one of the "juiced up Japanese guys" I mentioned in my earlier recap was someone called "Gedo". I have no idea who that is and now I know how you non-wrestling fans feel if you've read this far.

-Foreshadowing: Smackdown announcers JBL and Michael Cole come down the aisle and a handful of white folk in front of us (seriously, they were the only "group seated" Caucasians that I saw all night) were really cheering for JBL. For the uninformed, the "JBL" character isn't exactly a fan of "the brown people". Stay tuned.

-Inspired by Batista's pinstriped suit worn with a black wife beater underneath, here are some other wrestler fashion statements that should just stop: 1.) The leather vest w/o a shirt combo. 2.) Fanny packs. 3.) Skin tight jeans. 4.) Denim shorts. 5.) Any wrestler that wears his own t-shirt.

-OK, enough time has passed that I'll just go ahead and say it…Vickie Guerrero might be the least attractive woman to regularly appear on TV since the salad days of Mackenzie Phillips. You wore the crown proudly for three decades you 80-pound smack addict. The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen.

-During the Chavo Guerrero/Scotty 2 Hotty match, I discovered that "counting to 10 as the wrestler's head hits the turnbuckle" and "doing the 'w-o-r-m' thing" in unison with everyone else probably trumps the "bringing a sign" and "wearing the replica belt" points I made earlier.

-Memo to the "pyro" guys: There's a fine line between the 200 lbs. of TNT you use to announce the entrance of Kane and the same amount of explosives that kept about 100 people from ever exiting that Great White concert.

-During the Boogeyman/Finlay/midgets match, Finlay threw a handful of Boogey's worm into the audience. Men and women were parting like the Red Sea. This led to the first of several fan fights over the next 40 minutes, as a woman was hit square in the mug with a handful of harmless, yet unsanitary organisms by a dude who was about five rows in front of us.

-Finally, the return of "Rey Mysterio". By now, y'all know that the local boy came home only to catch a faux beatdown, but in the stands, four lone white folk stood and applauded the "abuse" that was being heaped upon the wee Hispanic. These people were right in front of me and their joy didn't go over too well with the Mexicans around us.

"Sit the fuck down", "I'll follow you outside" and a well placed shove by a dude in a Merriman jersey (fitting) and tattooed neck helped the four anti-Rey fans remain quietly in their seats for the rest of the show. Amazingly, these events caused the two Mexicans that we were with to get awfully leery of their countrymen.

And, not wanting to have to tell everyone in hell that I died "at a wrestling show", we took our leave…with about a half-pint of pride still left between us.

All Your Questions Will Be Answered

So, just where have I been? What happened to the rest of those "Part I" posts I put up last week? And, what do baby wipes, the Oscars and Michael Jordan have to do with any of it?

Check back this weekend.