There Goes The Neighborhood

Soon this house going up will block my beautiful, winter-time only view of the Ohio River and Northern Kentucky.

One day I woke up and it was already half built. Then a few weeks ago a big SUV came bounding down the drive and out popped a handful of children with a women I presume was their mom. She walked around the construction site while they played on a big pile of dirt.

I bet they'll be really excited to live next to the frat guys who rent the house next door. It's not a weekend on Golden/Lockland unless the band gets together for practice and then a bonfire.

It must be at least a half-million dollar house, much more I'm sure. Jeff Ruby lives up the street and his house is worth over a million, though he does have a better view.

Other than the view, though, I don't get why they'd build a house there. There's no yard, just a gravel driveway in the back and a precipice for a front yard. I guess they figure the kids are old enough not to sled down the cliff onto Columbia Parkway.

"Oh hon, it'll be so nice having the kids play in the alley. It really is a dream!"

I Give Thanks For Funny Stories

I went home Friday for turkey and noodle leftovers.

My dad and I were walking around the house to check the mail - as we walked he explained how he tricked his hunting buddies into helping him rake the leaves - and he got an insurance check for an accident he was in last month.

The accident totalled his truck. More precisely, his pride and joy, which is certainly not the pride nor joy of the driveway or neighbhorhood.

The truck is his hunting truck, a 1989 Ford Ranger with the doors dented in (not sure how that happened) and rust covering good portions of it. But it's good for hauling his hunting dogs in, five beagles.

I offered him $500 for the truck this summer when I briefly (very briefly) entertained the idea of buying a junker truck to haul my bike around in. He should be so lucky to get that much for it, I told him.

He scowled, insulted, and said, "Shut yo' mouth, girl. You ain't gettin' my Ranger."

Well, last month he was driving home with his dogs in the back when an elderly man pulled out in front of him on a country road.

"I thought about getting out and smackin' the old man," he said, in his dramatic retelling of the accident. "Hurt my truck. But then I saw he was old, 84-years-old, so I didn't. But, well, it made me mad. I turned the wheel to keep from him hitting him on the drivers door. Coulda hurt that old man, you know. Did $800 damage to his Cadillac. Said his wife was going to be mad at him."

My dad thought the Ranger was drivable and told the Sheriff's deputies he didn't need to tow. To be sure, though, he got back in to start it up. Then, Surprise! No brakes!

"I turned the wheel to the right and then the left and it turned all right, then I hit the gas," he said. "Everything seemed fine. Then I went to stop and BOINK! Right into the back of the deputy's car."

"You hit the cop car!" Perhaps I was a bit too excited about this part.

"Yeah. But I wasn't going very fast. Anyway, I needed a tow. Didn't have any brakes."

"Was he mad," I wanted to know.

"Didn't seem to be."

(Awesome. I now know someone who has a hit a Sheriffs deputy's car. And that someone would be my dad. Oops!)

As he was swinging around the check for $900-some, dancing around on the sidewalk singing "A-shopping-we-will-go," he said the check was only for his truck, not his "injuries."

"Did you get hurt, Dad?" Suddenly I was concerned. He hadn't mentioned this before.

"Oh yeah! I told the insurance lady that I hit my shin, jammed my hand and got a place on my arm. And my dog died."

"Oh no! One of your dogs died! You didn't tell me that before."

"Yeah, Fancy died. But I don't think it was from the wreck. She was sick. Though those five puppies sure were shakin' when I went back and checked on them. They were scared, boy."

"I bet they were," I said. "So wait, you told the insurance lady the crash killed your dog?"

"No. I told her my dog died, which was true. She did die."

Hmmm. Then he went on.

"She asked me how much a hunting dog like that costs and I told her about $300 to $400. She said, 'I live in Dearborn County and you can get a hunting pup for $50 to $100 around here.'

"I told her you get can't get a dog like I got for no $50 to $100. Huh. 'Bout made me mad." For effect, he shook his head in feigned disgust and adjusted the safety orange hunting cap he had on.

The Tall Drink of Water and I stood there on the sidewalk, amused and amazed.

So this insurance woman asked my dad if $650 would cover the cost of a new dog and the pain of his "injuries."

"That sounds about right," he told her.

For $50 he bought the totalled truck back from the insurance company, and now it sits in the driveway worse than before. Instead of just dents and rust it now also has a crushed in front end.

Ahh... Thanksgiving at the Daugherty Farm. (And by "farm" I mean the acre of land where my dad has parked his junk trucks since I was born.)

I'm Sorry Safari, But It's Over

Dear Safari,

We've been together for what, two years? Three years now?

I think we can safely say it's been a lovely, useful relationship. Still, this should come as no surprise, but I kinda hate you.

It only got worse earlier this week when you smacked me across the face with more of your impotence.

When I opened you up and tried to view YouTube videos on blogs and Web sites and you showed nothing, nothing! Well... That was hurtful. But for you turn your back on me and offer no updates for Panther, it didn't make me sad, it angered me. (Safari doesn't care about poor people.)

So it's over, playa. You go out and be with Tiger, fine. See ya. I just hope Tiger realizes what a whore you are when you leave it for Leopard. And you know you will.

I've found a new browser anyway. It's name is Camino, , and it's fast!

See ya, Mr. Selfish. And no, we cannot be friends.

P.S. You're getting fat.

So Long, Scruffy Sexy

I'm pretty upset about the LaRue trade.

The Tall Drink of Water warned me repeatedly - "It's going to happen. I'm just preparing you" - but it didn't soften the blow when I found out this afternoon.

What happens to a team when someone gets traded? All your favorite players end up somewhere else, so you're not even cheering for your favorite team anymore, you're cheering for a city, or a certain uniform, or whatever.

I liked the team the Reds had at the beginning of the season. LaRue. Dunn. Kearns. Willy Mo. Lopez. And now, only Dunn is left. So is Dunn "my team?" Isn't the team the men it's made of? And if you're not a fan of those men, then is that your favorite team anymore?

Maybe you're a little kid and you fell in love with the Reds because of the Big Red Machine and the men who made up the machine - Rose, Morgan, Perez, Foster, Bench, Concepcion. And those guys were your team. You loved them.

Then they got traded, got old, retired. But you still love that team. Those Reds. That Big Red Machine.

So some new players came along and you thought they were OK, but they were no Big Red Machine. Then a few guys came along that you liked almost as much and you got to appreciate them and then they were your team.

Well, the '05-06 Reds were my team.

I went to 16 Reds games this year. 16! (And I ate a helmet sundae with extra sprinkles at all of them but one.) I high fived strangers for them! And now what?!

Yeah, I root for the Reds, but my team is gone.

Who Knew?

Much to my surprise, I discovered this morning that an egg white has only 17 calories. (And 3.5 grams of protein, if you're curious.)

That explains why I'm starving about seven minutes after eating one.

I usually eat two egg whites in the morning, peeled away from the yolk of a hard-boiled egg. Until today, I thought I was eating plenty for breakfast. (No more for me, thanks. I'm stuffed!)

Turns out, I'm eating a whopping 34 calories. Wow. I've pretty much burned off 34 calories by the time I get to my car to start it.

For some reason I thought an egg/egg white would have at least 60 calories or so. And by eating two, well... I was well on my way to finishing a marathon.

Shocked by this 17 calorie egg white discovery, I asked the Tall Drink of Water how many calories he thinks an egg has.

"I don't know. About 800," he said.

Lemon Lime Redux

Tuesday morning I went the gym and worked out with Trainer Drew. After about 35 minutes, I started to not feel well. So I sat down on a nearby machine to relax for a few minutes.

After I felt better, I got up and proceeded to finish the set of tricep extentions I was doing.

Then I felt sick again and sat down.

"I think I gotta go," I told Drew. He was all, "Not again!"

I felt a little faint, but mostly I felt sick to my stomach. No sooner did I open the door to the locker room did I throw up - in my mouth!

So I rushed into a stall and proceeded to relieve myself of the Gatorade I had drank. As I was shaking and vomiting, I thought of how grateful I am that the bathrooms at Revolution are so clean. Even the toilet was spotless.

Then I showered and went to work.

Stop Lookin' At My Lemonade!

This commercial is pure genius.

1.) LeBron plays himself in four roles, hilariously
2.) But none better than the sneering old man
3.) Oh Lord!
4. The music - somewhere between "I just smoked a bowl" and "Baby, lemme call you"
5. The look playa Lebron gives from the pike position
6. The devish grin at the end

CiN Green Party

Thursday night's Green Party was the most fun I've had in at least six days. Ok, I'm lying. I can't remember the last time I had more fun.

Here are some photo highlights.


Dave and his beer had lots of fun... They were inseparable.



Air guitar. Lip syncing. And shock.



Blown out... But still smokin' hot. (I'm talking about Shana and her sister, of course.)



What drunk people look like standing on chairs.



Lovin', touchin,' squeezin' into the photo.



Hee hee hee. Look how Dan is smooshing his hand into Julie
hair. Move, Julie!



Straight thuggin'.



I harrassed this guy for at least 20 minutes. I was convinced he looked like Malcolm Gladwell. I even made the Tall Drink of Water meet him, too. (TDW said afterward it was "awkward.") The next day I decided he looks more like Gilbert Gottfried. Oh well. You win some, you lose some, you have too many vodka cranberries.

Merry Christmas To Me

Election Day is my favorite day ever. Better than Christmas morning, better than birthdays, better than any other day ever. I love it.

The last few weeks I've been giddy with excitement about getting to vote. I've voted in every election since I turned 18 - at my old elementary school, in the office of my former apartment complex, at the Chinese American Church. All sorts of interesting places.

Yesterday I was feeling achy and stiff and feared getting sick might ruin my voting experience. But fortunately I woke up this morning feeling much better and couldn't wait to scoot on down to the big red church on Eastern to ink-in the squares.

So I was horrified when I realized my drivers's license is expired. I've been driving under a lapsed license for nearly a month. Oops. (Not to mention I haven't yet put my current sticker on my plate either. I'm a rolling misdemeanor.)

I rushed home to grab a utility bill to prove my address and identity since Ohio now requires ID. But all I had was my state retirement statement. I was pretty certain it wouldn't be good enough, and since my ID was expired, I thought for sure I was going to have to go the BMV before I could vote.

But thank god I'm a former teacher in Ohio, because so was the older gentleman asking for my proof.

"I get these, too. Where do you teach," he asked me.

"I taught at UC. I don't anymore though."

"What did you teach?"

"Chronic and communicable diseases. I was a grad student in public health," I told him. Then I asked what he teaches.

"K-3. Little kids," he said. "I'm a sub now."

"Yeah, but I bet your little kids act more adult the whiny college kids I taught."

Then he handed me my two sheets of fun!

I'm a little sad I'm not in the newsroom tonight, eating greasy pizza and watching the results come in. But it's still exciting. I'll be up all night, agonizing as the results crawl in, cheering when my people win and being disgusted when they don't.

Lemme Get a Bun... And A Jomocha Shake

I was so hungry after work tonight I was going to eat at Arby's. So I hit the drive-thru at the one in Oakley.

You know the one: Incompetent, slow, sometimes they never get on the speaker and actually take your order.

Well, I go there and the guy on the speaker tells me he'll take my order at the window. Alright. Whatever. So I drive around and wait behind another car. Good sign, I'm thinking, because this at least means they've taken one order in the night.

Then it's my turn.

With his headset and black windbreaker on, he leans toward me out of the window and says, "We're out of beef. It's gonna be about an hour."

Out of beef? It's Arby's!

Crazy, but not nearly as crazy as the stuff that happens at the Scary Arby's downtown. They always have beef, but it's served with a side of scary.

Happy Halloween!

Say It Loud, Say It Plowed

The editors at Modern Drunkard magazine must have sobered up for the fall.

A few days ago I got my September/October issue of the magazine, a full five days before the end of the month. Whereas most magazines come weeks before the month they're due, Modern Drunkard comes a month late. Sometimes two.

All part of its charm.

The June/July issue was so late - I finally got it in September - that I thought my subscription had lapsed. Nope. Turns out, publication cycles at Modern Drunkard are taken a lot less seriously than say, the merits of Juicing on the Job.

Of the half dozen or so magazines I actually send a check to and subscribe, I look forward to Modern Drunkard the most. Devoted to the "joys and pains of getting plastered, plowed, bombed, ripped, hammered and blotto" it's always funny and entertaining. And despite not having a writing staff - at least as far as I can tell - it's a damn good read.

The best eulogy I read after Hunter S. Thompson went gonzo one last time and shot himself was written by Modern Drunkard's editor, Frank Rich. Below is a taste. The rest is here.

"There was always a powerful comfort in knowing he was out there somewhere in the night, roaring drunk, guzzling high-octane whiskey and railing against a world amok with complacency and hypocrisy. There was always a weird sense that he could pop up any where at any time to stick it to The Man and set things straight."

And before your next drink, be sure to read the 86 Rules of Boozing. Gems in here, people. Gems.

Ray and Susie Explain Themselves

A Digital Workout

As I work on some videos, including one of my mom and dad explaining (er, justifying) how they forgot my birthday, check out some recent photos.



Happy Birthday to me! Presents from my Tall Drink of Water.



The big one was the Senseo single serve coffee maker. Yay!



Hard-core for runners at Jen and Pat's Halloween party. (Something we'll never be mistaken for.) Check out TDW's obscenely short, split-cut running shorts. Yikes. (Running medals donated by Big Bri and his Jen.)



Pat changed out of his Mayor of Salem costume for this turn as a game show host for Halloween movie trivia. TDW and I started off strong in The Excorcist category, but ultimately lost in Final Jeopardy.



I didn't at first recognize this hipster werewolf until his fashionable D-Lister date was at his side. Good one.



High-fiving strangers was my favorite part of today's game. The camraderie at Bengals games is terrific. It makes you love football, even though the games are 9 hours long and there's a flag on every play. Even as people were leaving our aisle they were slapping us high-fives and Who Deys. Very fun.



I got TDW tickets for his birthday, which isn't until mid-November, so it was an early present.



Somehow, my hair looks better with post-game hat head. And as a present to myself (gotta support the team!), I got my first Cincinnati-sports related t-shirt. It's funny it's a Bengals shirt considering I went to 15 Reds games this season. (That's right 15!)

I'm Free!

For over a year I've taken a Wednesday night dance class (tap and hip-hop) in a renovated Wendy's in Northern Kentucky.

It's the class I looked for for years after high school and college when I ran out of dance options. So finding this class at Manyet Dance was terrific. The women are fun, entertaining and they're good dancers, which is something you won't find at most adult dance classes.

This is due mainly to the instructor, Lisa, who is a challenging teacher and terrific dancer herself.

But as with all things with me, each week I dreaded going. I'd love it for the two hours I was there, then it'd start all over again, 'Damn, I have to go to dance class Wednesday. Grrr."

I hate to be scheduled. I hate knowing I HAVE to do anything, be anywhere, or have an appointment of any kind. It looms over me. (It makes having a job very difficult.)

So tonight, with help from Big Bri, my Tall Drink of Water and several coworkers, I decided to quit. Yep. I'm a quitter. But I'm free!

I'm a little sad about it. I know my calves won't hurt on Thursdays anymore and my flexibility will plummet, but having my Wednesday nights free again is liberating.

And anyway, I only sorta quit. I chatted with Lisa, who said our class will start its new dances after the holidays. So she's saving a spot for me to start back up again January 15.

Which means I'll be back to complaining about all over again.

Unbelievable

My mom forgot my birthday.

Friday Night Fun

This as of 12:28 a.m. Look at him. Isn't he a trooper? Ah yes... This is the scene most Friday nights. My Tall Drink of Water is passed out on the couch and I'm usually reading. Pretty exciting, we are.

But this weekend is different, because it's my birthday weekend. On Tuesday, I am happy to report, I will be turning 100. Don't I look young for my age?

Once I get through soccer tomorrow morning, it's all about me. And I've got big plans for us.

Tonight we had dinner at the Montgomery Inn, which is where I have TDW take me for birthdays, special occasions (like when I'm mad at him and he wants me to forgive him) or whenever he cashes in on sports bets.

Tonight's special was Cincinnati's D-List media personalities.

First, we got seated next to Rich Apuzzo, the recently fired meteorologist at FOX19. (Management was "looking into something" before he got canned. My prediction: Apuzzo is behind the five months of perma-cloud that sits on Cincinnati every winter. Or management just figured out that meteorologists are always wrong!)

Anyway, it was wildly entertaining. TDW and I got into a tiff over the appropriateness of me wanting to ask him, "So, why'd ya get fired." I mean, come on, it's not like everyone doesn't know. It was widely reported. (Not that I read any of it.)

Then I said I could pretend like I didn't know, because really, I don't watch the 10 o'clock news, especially on FOX.

I could be like, "Oh! It's you! Haven't seen ya on the news for a while. Where've you been?"

But TDW put the smack down on that too.

"But you DO know. I told you!" he said.

Technicalities. Technicalities.

Then, a colleague of mine who works in online and is also a Cincinnati.com blogger, who shall remain nameless since he probably Googles himself once a month and could find this blog and know that I think he's ridiculous, was seated at another booth right near us, making that section of the Montgomery Inn the D-list media trifecta. (His name rhymes with "Ryan Slutts," and his last name is as equally unfortunate.)

He was on a date it appeared. (The girl was wearing panty-hose, anyway.) I was tempted to roll up and go, "So... You were supposed to fix my video two days ago and never did." Then for effect I'd push his Mt. Dew over. But that seemed excessive. Then TDW and I discussed the pros and cons of walking over and eating something off his plate.

I totally should have, though, because whenever you call up my Spam video in anything other than Internet Explorer, some Bengal's fan pops up singing about Jesus and football.

OK, so that's hilarious. But still.

Somewhat Less Disturbed Now

This email was in my inbox when I got to work Monday morning.

SUBJECT: Thanks!!!
Thank you again for coming to the fight. I really appreciate the phone call, I just got it tonight and I didnt know if it was too late
to call you back or not. Sorry I did not put on a good show. I know I have the talent to beat him but I made a stupid mistake and I got caught. But thank you again I am fine, I actually grappled today. I do remember the fight but my head is a little sore. But other than that I am ready to go again. lol! Please don't let this hinder your opinion about mma.

Thank you again!
Brent Roth

That's Gonna Leave A Mark (On Me)

I've been quiet and alarmed all day as my mind replays images last night's cage match at the convention center.

To say Brent Roth was knocked-out is accurate, but not precise. To say he lost to a knock-out suggests he was outskilled, outfought. And that wasn't the case, at least to my untrained eye.

I had been looking forward to the fight for weeks, since I interviewed the 19-year-old Brent for this story.

I went to watch him practice and talked to his dad and mom and trainer, and came away from the story with an appreciation and relative understanding of mixed martial arts and cage fighting. This article in Slate helped a lot too.

Brent was 3-0 before the fight and had daydreams of turning professional in the Ultimate Fighting Championship.

After school at Wright State, five days a week, Brent trains with his Gracie Jiu-Jitsu instructor in mixed martial arts and another instructor in boxing. I even made this video of his training to go along with the story.

You'll see (if you use Firefox as your browser, Safari won't show it) he is soft-spoken, seemingly sweet and without a hint of the hubris or cockiness found in cage fighters. Though skilled, he doesn't seem like the guy who'd lock himself into a steel octogon and want to fight his way out.

Nonetheless, I was excited to see him try, and I knew his parents, classmates and family would be there as well.

A few days before the match Brent's opponent was changed, unbeknowst to him. He'd been training to fight a wrestler who was on the original card. But I noticed the change after writing the story and emailed Brent to see if he knew why. He didn't.

From then on, I had a bad feeling about it. I don't know why, I just did.

His was the second to last fight and I sat there nervous the whole time waiting. The rest of the fights were pretty entertaining. I can see why people like it. One fighter, who had an entourage of people wearing blue Team Demon t-shirts, suffered what I guess was a humiliating loss because he came back from the fight and hugged his mom for a good long while, then his girlfriend, and then his friends before he went to the consession stand for nachos. (Nachos being the official snack of cage fighting, I decided last night.)

Another guy, who was older than anyone else and kind of graying, was a little sad to watch because he was far too inexperienced to be in the ring and took a good pummeling before the ref called the fight. Not to mention his pony-tail fell out, which made me kinda sad for him.

But the rest of the fights were pretty tame. A few guys got knocked around pretty good, but not much. There was minimal blood and no knock outs. Mostly, it was guys throwing a few punches and rolling around on the matt before the other, usual the better man at martial arts, pretzeled him into submission.

Then it was Brent's fight. I was videoing it thinking I'd post it on CinWeekly so people could see how he did. Win or lose, I thought it'd be interesting.

Brent and his opponent boxed for about one minute, both getting off a few good hits with some kicks mixed in. Then as Brent went to kick him again, his opponent grabbed his foot and within seconds, Brent was above the guys head. Several fighters last night got body slammed without peril, but I felt like when it was happening, it was bad.

And then Brent came down on the back of his head and neck. He was unconscious as soon as he hit the mat, I imagine. But his opponent seized the opportunity, pounced on him and started punching him in the face as Brent layed there, unconscious and quivering. The crowd went crazy, then silent. I felt sick.

The ref tackled his opponent as soon as he realized Brent was unconscious. Three medics rushed into the cage, along with his trainer. For about two minutes, Brent didn't move or speak. I turned off my video camera horrified that I was taping his final moments. That not only was I privy to his death, but that I was filming it.

With a lump in my throat, I grabbed ahold of my Tall Drink of Water to have him help me down from the chair I was standing on.

After several agonizing minutes and stunned silence from the crowd, Brent finally lifted his head. About that time, the medics brought in an orange stetcher and I wondered how it happened that the only person to be hurt and carried out on a stretcher would be Brent. It seemed so surreal.

But he refused it, and with the help of his trainer and the medics, he stood up and walked out of the ring on his own. Wobbling and in need of assistance, but not on a stretcher.

All last night and today I've been challenged to remove the images from my mind. To think of him landing the way he did, without a chance of fighting back, and then being pummelled while unconscious is to tough to wrap my mind around.

It finally got the better of me tonight and I was able to track down his trainer's phone number. So I called him. On a Sunday night. I told him how much it shook me up and that I'd been worried all day and just wanted to make sure Brent was all right.

"It's hard to see," he assured me. "It's violent. We were all scared. But Brent's fine."

Then he kind of laughed, saying how nice it was that I was concerned.

"We talked about the mistake he made in letting himself get airborne," he went on. "Actually, we just finished some jiu-jitsu training tonight. He's doing fine. You want his cellphone number?"

I called and left Brent a rambling message, telling him my first cage match was fun, except that I worried about him all day and hoped he was feeling OK. Then I told him that I was going to email him tomorrow and if he could write me back assuring me that he is all right, I'd appreciate it.

It surprises me how affected I am by this, but if you saw the video, you'd see why.

The Best Lemonade This Side of a Dirty Glass

The weather really was beautiful this week, and my mom, an avid walker, took advantage and set out around the neighborhood.

"And I saw the cutest little girl with a lemonade stand, Gina," she told me, using her sweet voice, the one she uses to talk to little kids. "She must have been about six or seven, and she had her two front teeth missing. And she was just a-sittin' there, swinging her legs in her little chair."

"So I asked her, 'How much for a glass of lemonade,' and she told me 50 cents. Then I noticed that she only had three glasses out. Glass glasses, not paper cups. So I asked her how many customers she'd had and she said three, but that she'd wiped off the glasses with paper towels she had sitting there. But still all the glasses had been drank out of. I thought, 'Oh no. What am I gonna do?'

I, too, wondered what she was going to do. My mom is quirky in the sense that she won't eat things from other people's houses unless she can vouch for their cleanliness.

During carry-ins at the factory where she worked, she'd always bring a dish but would only pretend to eat what other people brought, not knowing where and under what circumstances the food had been prepared. She's maniacal particularly when it comes to animals in the house. If she knew a coworker had a cat or dog that lived in their house, under no circumstances would she eat the food, regardless of whether or not she was starving or missing the best brownies on Earth.

She even has a hard time eating at my house, because of Cassady and Cassius. (And for good reason, there's freakin' cat hair everywhere!) And she refuses, absolutely will not, touch a dog or cat with her hands. (She pets my cats with her foot.)

Faced with the decision of hurting the feelings of the cutest little girl in Marion selling lemonade and being forced to drink after someone else, I was curious how this would go down.

"Well, of course I wasn't going to hurt her feelings," she said. "So I gave her 50 cents and had her pour the tiniest amount of lemonade into one of the glasses, and about that time her mom came from around the side of the house and said, 'Thank you so much for stopping! She's been sitting out here all day.'"

"Awww, well that's so nice that you stopped," I told her.

"And the lemonade was really good. So I walked home and got your dad and told him we were going up the street to this little girl's lemonade stand. Then I grabbed a couple of paper cups. You know your dad - he won't drink out of a dirty glass. He's funny about stuff like that."