Baseball Question

I don't know if anyone who reads this is some sort of baseball statistics savant or has access to this kind of information, but I was wondering if anyone knew whether or not there has ever been an MLB team that has had 4 players hit 30 HRs and 100 RBI in a season. And if so, has any team ever had 4 players who have hit .300+, 30 HRs, and 100 RBI in a season?

I realize the chances that anyone would know this are smaller than that creepy Nepalese kid, but I am curious because the White Sox have a pretty good shot this year at achieving the former, if not the latter:
Joe Crede: .301 28 HR 87 RBI
Jermaine Dye: .328 38 HR 107 RBI
Paul Konerko: .307 29 HR 94 RBI
Jim Thome: .296 36 HR 92 RBI

Midwestern Eavesdropping - 8/31/06

Midwestern Eavesdropping is back. It is perfectly appropriate to call it a comeback because it hasn't been here for years. Here you go:

Drunk twentysomething special-ed teacher: "I ate my weight in mayonnaise at my bachelorette party."
--Chicago, Nick's Uptown bar, Irving Park & Sheridan
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Two muscle-bound guys (putting to shame the four pudgy, pale midwestern guys) at hotel pool:
Hans: "Check out this frog!"
Frans: "Dude, go wash your hands, don't pick up frogs."
Hans: "Why? Who gives a fuck?"
Frans: "Dude, that's how you get warts."
Hans: "Fuck off, man."
Frans: "No. Seriously, you can get genital warts from frogs."
--Myrtle Beach, SC
Eavesdropper: Rombo

Drunk Preppie: "I'm going to go sit in Eddie Bauer and loosen my bowels."
--Chicago, State & Ohio
Eavesdropper: RobD

Thirtysomething female to a group of friends: "I got Hep A, Hep C, and typhoid in the ass."
--Chicago, Vaughan's Pub, Sheffield & Wellington
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Thirtysomething female to twentysomething male during frank discussion of oral sex: "When it comes to Angelina [Jolie], I'm pretty sure I'd eat box and not think twice about it."
--Chicago, Vaughan's Pub, Sheffield & Wellington
Eavesdropper: RDC

Bespectacled stubblemeister: "No, no, wait a minute, don't lie, you chose Poop Soup."
Ex-sorority girl: "I did not. I did NOT. I picked the Diarrhea Shake. Get it right, dickface."
--Bloomington , IN, Crazy Horse bar
Eavesdropper: RobD

90-year-old Italian woman and fiftysomething woman discuss 90's marriage:
Fiftysomething: "So how old were you when you and Robert got married?"
90: "I was 16 and he was 23."
Fiftysomething: "Wow, that's quite an age difference."
90 (taken aback): "What are you talking about? It's only 7 years."
--Erie, PA, 90-year-old Italian woman's house
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Technically it's not eavesdropping, but rather eavesseeing, but still funny:
Shitty, mid-90s white Honda (Whonda?) with large bumper stickers that read:
-Gayly married lesbian
-Illegal Immigrant
-Caution: Menopausal Driver
Driving the car: normal mid-20s white male
--Columbus, OH
Eavesdropper: The Ulltimate Lactose Hater

While this isn't technically eavesdropping either, but more along the lines of eavesseeing. Nonetheless, it's a nice picture of the Chicago Public Schools' delightfully defeatist slogan:

--Chicago, some school that is more than happy if kids just show up
Eavesdropper: Puffman

Thank you to everyone who contributed and bollocks to everyone who didn't. Hopefully the Labor Day weekend will provide everyone with the opportunity to overhear some stupid shit. When you do, so help me God, email it to gmyhblog@yahoo.com for inclusion in next Thursday's (hopefully) Midwestern Eavedropping.

AL Central
1. Detroit 83-50 – (29)
2. White Sox 78-54 (30) 4.5 (still creepin')

AL Wild Card
1. White Sox 78-54 -- (30)
2. Minnesota 76-55 1.5 (31)

NL Wild Card
1. San Diego 68-65 – (29)
2. Philadelphia 67-65 0.5 (30)
3. Cincinnati 67-67 1.5 (28)
4. Florida 65-67 2.5 (30)
5. San Francisco 65-68 3.0 (29)
5. Astros 65-68 3.0 (29) (creepin')
7. Arizona 64-69 4.0 (29)
7. Atlanta 63-68 4.0 (31)

MWE Reminder

Just a reminder to submit your Midwestern Eavesdroppings to gmyhblog@yahoo.com. If you get something to me by lunchtime on Thursday, it will be included.

Painfully Funny

I don't have much time to write anything today, but I hate to leave you empty-handed, so I ask you to check out this video from a Japanese game show. Apparently the goal is to say a tongue twister correctly. Those who don't suffer a cock slapping my some sort of mechanized she-devil foot. No matter how sophisticated you make yourself out to be, it's hard not to laugh out loud when you see a guy get smacked in the crotch. Thanks to Matthew Spring for the link.

AL Central
1. Detroit 82-49 -- (31)
2. White Sox 77-54 5.0 (31) (creepin')

AL Wild Card
1. White Sox 77-54 -- (31)
2. Minnesota 76-54 0.5 (32)

NL Wild Card
1. San Diego 67-65 -- (30)
2. Philadelphia 66-65 0.5 (31)
2. Cincinnati 67-66 0.5 (29)
4. Florida 65-66 1.5 (31)
5. San Francisco 65-67 2.0 (30)
6. Arizona 64-68 3.0 (30)
6. Astros 64-68 3.0 (30)
8. Atlanta 62-68 4.0 (32)
9. Milwaukee 62-70 5.0 (30)

What The?

Just as I predicted, John Mark Karr's good name was cleared. In case you haven't heard, prosecutors have dropped the charges against Karr in the JonBenet Ramsey case because his DNA didn't match that found at the crime scene. Karr comes away from this looking like a genius, having concocted a magical fairytale about how he accidentally choked JonBenet while trying to kidnap her, so that he could get extradited from Thailand, where he was bound to be charged with some trumped up child molestation charge. Now Karr can get back into teaching and be a productive member of society, surely blending in wherever he ends up. I mean, look at him. He's a tiger, just waiting to get out there and touch the world. One thing is crystal clear: Karr is going to get soooo laid because of this whole thing. What a ladykiller! At least that's what he'll tell you.

In other news, I came across www.myheritage.com, a site that allows you to upload photos of yourself and then it tell you which celebrities you most resemble. You can do it with multiple photos, which I found entertaining because I could see the variance in celebrities. Apparently I look like Hal Sparks. Here are my various results. Some of them are pretty funny.
































AL Wild Card
1. Minnesota 76-53 -- (33)
2. White Sox 76-54 0.5 (32)

NL Wild Card
1. Cincinnati 67-65 -- (30)
2. San Diego 66-65 0.5 (31)
3. Philadelphia 65-65 1.0 (32)
4. San Francisco 65-66 1.5 (31)
5. Florida 64-66 2.0 (32)
6. Arizona 64-67 2.5 (31)
7. Houston 63-68 3.5 (31)
8. Atlanta 61-68 4.5 (33)
8. Milwaukee 62-69 4.5 (31)
10. Colorado 61-69 5.0 (32)

Note: The 6th place team in the AL Wild Card race (Texas) would be tied for the lead in the NL Wild Card race. The NL sucks this year.

GMYH One Year Anniversary

It seems like just yesterday that Jason "Wee Wee" Whitney prompted me to start a blog. It wasn't yesterday. It was one year ago, interestingly on the 6th anniversary of the first time I kissed the woman who would eventually become my wife. (Yes, I remember that date, and I'm not ashamed to admit it -- it just makes me a better husband/boyfriend than 97.3% of the husbands/boyfriends out there. Plus, how could I forget when I went in for the kill and Jessie backed away for a moment to spit out her gum in less than elegant fashion? I knew she was the one.)

But anyway, I would like to thank everyone who for some reason reads this on a regular basis, as well as everyone who just reads it now and then. I am not sure why anyone would want to read the delusions of a horribly depressed lawyer who pretends to bang chicks in his office every Friday while listening to hair band music. I am legitimately concerned about your mental stability, as you should be about mine.

Paranoid schizophrenia aside, here are some of the highlights from GMYH's first year:

• 2005 Labor Day Weekend in Chicago. The first in a long and continuing line of unnecessarily long posts about stupid shit that happens when I drink. I like to drink.
• GMYH Interview Workshops: Interview Questions 1, Interview Questions 2, Interview Questions 3, Interview Tips, Sample Interview Script, and Questions for Interviewees to Ask.
• The dawning of Hair Band Friday. Working on Fridays hasn't been the same since. And I have VD.
• GMYH Biographies: Jesterio, Tron, Wee Wee, Greg Weeser*, Zumpano, Kris Kringle, Matthew Spring, J-Diza, and the forthcoming Hack Bone.
• The 30 in 8 Series: pregame, beer 4, postgame, recap, and Ashcraft puking.
• Fecal Phantoms. I don't know if this is really a highlight, but it seemed to happen more than it should have: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six.
• I foreshadowed Midwestern Eavedropping by listening to one of the dumbest conversations of all-time in a Kettering, Ohio Panera.
• The White Sox -- yes, the Chicago White Sox -- won the World Series.
• I traveled to East Lansing for Halloween, and Goni and I got robbed. Pictures were taken.
• The famed Metz Suite "Areola" Weekend, and the resulting 3 posts: the recap, the song, and the pictures.
• I saw Saw.
• The Dirty Dayton Bar Crawl.
• Ryan almost gutted Volchok with a wine bottle. In retrospect, he should have.
• Gonzaga's basketball team was finally exposed for what it was: the ugliest team in college basketball.
• The Bachelor Party Manifesto.
• You know you're from Southwestern Ohio if . . .
• For some reason I decided to get serious on the 25th anniversary of John Lennon's death.
• I sounded off on court-rushing in college basketball.
• PopoZao.
• I was nearly murdered by some F-4s.
• I saw the fucking Crüe.
• I lost 10 pounds, most of which is still off.
• For Lent, I gave up drinking during the week and fried foods.
• The OC "When Will Marissa Eat?" pool, which Holt won by picking episode 69 (hell yeah). He has not yet redeemed his prize.
• People mispronounced words. I was not happy.
• Rhonda hit the 200,000-mile mark. Stickers were applied.
• Jester and I went to Key West.
• I discovered Troy's Mixtape of Love.
• Jester and I moved to Chicago. Several days later I shuked.
• Midwestern Eavesdropping was started.
• Marissa Cooper fucking died. Volchok will pay.
• Kim and Casey got married. So did Chris and Selina.
• It came to my attention that there is a Wings tribute band.
• Jessie and I made it to our first anniversary.
• There is a 5-year-old transvestite in Florida.
• I mercilessly berated a Christian rock band called Hot Sundae. Twice. Luckily it turns out that they have a pretty good sense of humor.
• A week before the bar exam, I nearly killed myself with alcohol whilst seeing Def Leppard and Journey. Nearly a month later I nearly killed myself after being introduced to the O-Bomb.
• I took the Illinois bar exam. Sweet.
• I went to Lollapalooza.
• Some guy lied about killing JonBenet Ramsey.
• For some reason I started up a GMYH MySpace page and a GMYH Cafe Press shop.

Thanks again. I love you all.

"I'm Not a Nice Boy, and I Never Was"

Hair Band Friday is back after last week's roadtrip to Erie, PA, a town that is not known as the Mecca of Totally Rocking Out. As you can probably imagine, I had to do some catching up this week. And by "catching up," I mean "banging some chick named Suzette that I just met after I totally reviewed the shit out of some documents." I've pretty much been drinking Jack straight from the bottle (and off this chick named Nicole's chest) since I got to the office this morning. You wouldn't even believe the shit that's been going down in here. And yes, I do mean going down, if you know what I mean. If you don't know what I mean, you're probably a total square who listens to Morrissey and isn't all about totally rocking out every Friday in your office while making out with chicks who are so impressed by your work product that they are willing to remove all clothing except for their knee-high white patent leather stiletto boots. The last three songs blaring at normally unacceptable decibel levels from my speakers were "Nice Boys" by G N' f'n R, "The Morning After" by Ratt, "Bad Girl" by Trixter. Speaking of bad girls, Elli and Kelli greased up the stripper poles and have been trying their damndest to outstrip each other in some sort of contest for my affection after they saw me write a totally kickass letter to opposing counsel. Little do they know that by the end of the day I will have impregnated both of them and kicked their whorish asses to the curb. And that, my friends, is why Jesus invented Plan B and bus fare.

In case you were unaware of the date, it is August 25, which means two things. First, it marks the seventh anniversary of the day that Jessie and I met. It's still unclear to me why she accepted my telephone call two days later, or why she agreed to come over to the Pi Kapp house again two days later, or why she agreed to continue seeing me, or why she married me, or why she hasn't suffocated me in my sleep or at least sliced my hamstrings.

Second, there are only 122 more shopping days until Christmas (for you non-Christians, Christmas marks the day that Santa Claus was born). I know the pressure to get the perfect gift can be suffocating. Hell, I have a wife and a dog. How's that for pressure? If you're like me -- and, for your sanity and prosoperity, I pray to God that you're not -- then you still have no idea what you're going to get that special someone. Buck up little camper, because we're gonna beat this thing together. Here are some ideas that will satisfy even the most discriminating tastes:

• A year's supply of Plan B (for you kids out there, that's the "morning after pill," which will allow -- with a doctor's note if you're under 18 -- you to have as much consequence-free sex as your looks dictate). Plan B is highly endorsed by GMYH and, more specifically, Hair Band Friday. Make love, not babies. (That last sentence should be the official slogan of Plan B, if there is not already one in place.)
• K-Fed's new CD. Someone has to buy it, right?
• John Mark Karr's soon-to-be-released book, entitled "Lying My Ass Off So As to Make the World Think That Patsy Ramsey Didn't Kill Her Daughter and Other Funny Things I Did This Year"
• A KISS water fountain that spews blood from Gene Simmons's mouth. I'm not kidding. I have one. So should you.
• Any variety of things from the soon-to-be-decent GMYH Cafe Press store.
• The subject of the censored 13th day of Christmas: 13 hookers laying
• Handwritten lyrics to "Mandy" by Barry Manilow. This is especially appropriate if the person to whom you are giving the gift is named Mandy. Otherwise, it's just weird.
• A homemade quilt made from all of his/her favorite used underwear
• Cocaine
• The special edition DVD of The Fast and The Furious: Tokyo Drift.
• The IBF Welterweight title he has always wanted
• That winter home in New Orleans she has always been talking about
• Ann Coulter's ashes
• Princess Di commemorative plates. I can't see how they would ever go down in value.
• A Lexus wrapped in a giant red bow. From what I've seen, this seems to be a lot more common than you would think.
• The new Slayer Christmas LP, "Fun Songs About Jesus"
• A Motor City Bowl berth for IU

Because I strive to bring you only the most useful statistics, I am adding a "games remaining" parenthetical after each team's Wild Card standing. This should clear up any and all confusion.

AL Wild Card
1. White Sox 75-52 -- (35)
2. Minnesota 74-52 0.5 (36)
3. Boston 71-56 4.0 (35)

Pluto, We Hardly Knew You

Well, there were only 4 submissions for Midwestern Eavesdropping, so it's postponed until next week. I give you my all, and what do I get in return? A bunch of lilly-livered, non-imposing readers who follow the rules of social etiquette by not purposely listening in on strangers' conversations. Pathetic.

No worries, though, because the International Astronomical Union has given me plenty of nonsensical fodder for today's post by revoking Pluto's planet card. Yes, that's right, Pluto is no longer considered a planet. What concerns me most about this horrifying development is that elementary school science teachers are going to be frantically struggling to come up with a new mnemonic device to help the children remember the planets of our solar system because they will need something to replace the now-obselete My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pies. Fear not, because this is the exact situation for which I created a blog. I give to you, the concerned science teachers of America, the following mnemonic devices that will aid your students' ability to remember the eight planets of our fair solar system:

1. My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nighttrain
2. Married Venezuelans Entertain Many Jewish Swingers Unless Not
3. My Vagina Excretes Many Juicy Substances Under Nightfall
4. Milk Very Effectively Makes Jamaican Swordswallowers Urinate Nonstop
5. Mike's Violent Erection Made Jane Seem Understandably Nervous
6. Most Viennese Entertainers Make Jealous Socially Unforgiving Nihilists
7. Most Vehement Evangelists Merely Just Stop Up North
8. Murder Victims Eventually Make Jizz Sponges Under Necrophiliacs
9. Mustard Vanilla Eclairs Must Just Sound Undeniably Nauseating
10. My Very Eager Mistress Just Sucked Until Now
11. Most Vegans' Exteriors Mostly Just Smell Ungodly Noxious
12. Many Vampires Equal Mostly Just Sweet Until Night
13. Mary's Venous Eczema Makes Jerry Springer Upchuck Nightly
14. Mississippi Very Educated Makes Just Sense Understand No
15. Milli Vanilli’s Early Music’s Just Sonically Unequaled Now
16. Most Vaudevillian Entertainers Made Jalopies Seem Normal
17. Micturating Violently Evokes Mainly Just Soggy Underwear Nocturnally
18. Mostly VanDamme Emulates Musclebound Justinian Singing Urban Ninjas
19. Most Virgins Erroneously Must Just Start Undulating Nude
20. Many Virgins Eagerly Masturbate Jealously Supine Under Nightfall
21. Most Venetians Enter Motorcars Justifiably Suspiciously Unless Naked
22. Multiple Venomous Eels Make Jokes Seem Unimportant Nowadays
23. Merry Vladimir Eagerly Married Josephine’s Simply Unbelievable Nipples
24. My Very Eccentric Mother Just Served Us Nothing
25. Moccasin Venom Ends Men Just So Unnaturally Nastily
26. Masturbating Vehemently Essentially Means Jessie’s Sexually Uninterested Nightly
27. Mario Vomited Eventfully. Mario Just Saw Ugly Nipples.

I'll add more as I think of them, and I invite you to add your own. The future of America's schoolchildren depends on it.

I'd also like to remind everyone that we are approaching the 26,000th visitor. Whoever that may be, please email me at gmyhblog@yahoo.com, preferably with a picture or a screen shot of your computer screen showing 26,000. Also, if you're already one of the previous biography "winners," then you can't "win" again (i.e., I'm not going to write another biography for you). I will try to steer clear of GMYH as the number gets close to 26,000, so that I don't repeat last week's faux pas or eat any foie gras, at least within city limits.

Longshanks is a Dick

While I sit here eating a surprisingly sweet Granny Smith (the apple, not some dude's grandma, jackasses), I just realized that today is the 701st anniversary of the execution of William Wallace, perhaps one of the worst days in US History. But on the other hand, it's Rick Springfield's 57th birthday, which is ironic because William Wallace never knew anyone named Jessie, but he did do everything for Scotland, which did nothing for him. Unless you consider post-mortem events, such as nine years after his death, in the Year of Our Lord Thirteen Fourteen, at the Battle of Bannockburn, when some Scottish dudes -- reportedly starving and outnumbered -- won their freedom by fighting like warrior-poets, whatever the fuck that means.

As I noted yesterday, I started a GMYH MySpace page. I put a link to that page on the right sidebar. The 1st 12 friends I get will have the honor (and concomitant glory) of being forever in my Top 12 (aside from Tom, the MySpace operator who is everyone's friend -- he does not get said glory).

College football is merely a week and a half away. I know that everyone is excited as me (and I even like a team that hasn't been to a bowl since 1993). To hold everyone over, here is a link to the Bluegrass Miracle. It never gets old, especially the part where the fucking stupid UK fans are still rushing the field not realizing that their team lost. Thanks to Tail Pipe Hess for the link.

For those of you who are more into college basketball, it's only about 3 months away. To hold you over, I have this sweet homemade video from the stands of last year's IU/Duke game when Marco Killingsworth's breakaway dunk gave the Hoosiers the lead and broke Assembly Hall into hysterics. The quality of the video is not great, but you get the point. It's pandemonium. As Holt "Gimme Some" Hedrick (who sent me the link) said, "Even Coach K called it the loudest stadium he'd ever heard outside of Cameron Indoor." Man, I miss going to IU basketball games. For you Illinois fans, those weird red oblong things you see above the far end of the court are NCAA championship banners.

In other news, I need -- yes, need -- more submissions for Midwestern Eavesdropping. We currently have two. This once-every-two-weeks shit is really starting to affect my Qi (or ch'i, for those of you into Wade-Giles romanization, or ki, for those of you into romanized Japanese -- I honestly have no idea what any of that means, but it's on Wikipedia, so it has to be important to someone).

"There's No Hope With Dope"

IMPORTANT GMYH ANNOUNCEMENT: I started up a GMYH MySpace page. It's in its formative stages, and it essentially worthless right now, but I figured I would spread the word, since having only one MySpace friend (Tom, the guy who runs MySpace) is horribly weak.

This morning's Saved By The Bell block was one of the best I've seen in a long time. I didn't happen to catch the 6am show (although it was no doubt awesome), since I was getting totally buff at the gym during that time, whaling on my glutes and such. But the 3 shows that followed were simply classics:

6:30: The Johnny Dakota episode. Jake Ryan wannabe Johnny Dakota chooses Bayside HS as the location for an anti-drug PSA. He then courts a more-than-willing Kelly, taking her on a couple dates. Just as most movie stars do, Johnny invited a group of high schoolers to a totally awesome party at his house. Even Screech was gonna get laid. Then some total stroke busted out a joint (that's slang for "marijuana cigarette"), and guess what? Johnny was all about it. He even offered Kelly a hit. "No f'n way!" she said, in so many words. Then the next day everyone backed out on Johnny's anti-drug PSA because he's a hypocritical, lying dope smoker, and who wants to be in a commercial with that? Then he backed out of the PSA. As luck would have it, one of Richard Belding's good friends growing up was none other than NBC President Brandon Tartikoff, so he filled in for Johnny, and (with the help of Zack, Kelly, Screech, Lisa, Slater, and Jessie) made a heartfelt -- and more importantly, honest -- anti-drug PSA.

7:00: The Murder Mystery episode. The gang wins a weekend at a murder mystery mansion, and things start to get hairy when one of the other contestant's jewelry gets stolen. So then the guy in charge calls "the game" off. Or does he? This episode had everything: cross-dressers, a French maid (in the appopriate outfit), deception, and intrigue.

7:30: The Zack Attack episode. Unfortunately, I had to leave 5 minutes into it to go to work, but this episode was about the likely story of the gang (minus Jessie, because she was probably stripping at the time) forming a band and, while practicing in Zack's garage, they get discovered by a bigshot producer who happened to be jogging by and heard the sweet sirens of the Zack Attack calling to him. While the band totally rocks in every possible way, they eventually break up because of creative differences, only to reunite several minutes later and totally rock like they've never rocked before. What was most disappointing about this episode was not the canned melodies of "Friends Forever" (which is my GMYH MySpace song), but rather than it turned out to be just one of Zack's dreams. I cry nearly everytime I see the end of the episode when he gets jostled awake as the others are arriving at his garage to practice music that will not get them a random huge recording contract.

AL Wild Card
1. White Sox 73-51 --
2. Minnesota 72-51 0.5
3. Boston 69-55 4.0

(Note: I am not going to show the NL Wild Card stats unless the Astros are within 5 games)

Erie Sucks

This weekend was unfun. Friday morning, I caught a plane to Cleveland (which, as far as I can tell, does not rock, despite what Drew Carey may otherwise try to tell you), and then rented a car to drive 2 hours to Erie, PA so that I could help my mom and aunt with the estate sale of their dead uncles, who, as far as I could tell, never threw one thing away during their entire lives. Neither of them ever married, and they lived in this house for 50+ years.

Alamo had no compacts (as I assumed when I reserved one), so I got a Pontiac G6 coupe, which was pretty nice. No less than two minutes after I pulled out of the rental car parking lot, I saw what I assume will never been seen again: two white, mid- to late-'80s Chevrolet Caprice Estate Wagons driving next to each other. As far as I could tell, this was not a coordinated event, as one of them turned onto the road after the other one was already there. I took a picture to prove this monumental occasion:

I got to Erie around 3 on Friday. From there, my weekend pretty much sucked. The veritable stench of death, rot, moth balls, and broken dreams permeated the house. The house itself is pretty nice, although at some point they split in two so that they could have a duplex and rent out the upstairs. Hence, they have a stairway to nowhere in their living room. While this was really cool when I was a kid, I have now come to the conclusion that they completely ruined the house by chopping it in half.

The highlight of my time there included:

• I saw a bluejay on a tree in the backyard

Other things that happened include the following:

• On Friday, I moved a whole bunch of crap from a Blair Witch-esque basement to the main floor of the house or outside onto the porch. Nearly 40% of it actually sold.
• Apparently my great uncles liked to can their own fruit. In one of the cupboards in the basement, I found about 50 mason jars full of peaches, pears, and jellies, dating as far back as 1969.
• They also liked to make wine, as evidenced by the two 5-gallon glass jugs of vintage 1965 homemade wine that they were apparently saving for a special occasion that never occurred.
• My mom and aunt hired a neighborhood teenager to help me move shit out of the basement on Friday. He came over wearing a knit hat and a long-sleeve shirt, despite the fact that it was 80+ degrees and 75% humidity. For reasons that are still unclear to me, he spoke like a valley girl. His favorite expression, which he pretty much used in response to anything, even when it really didn't make any sense for him to say it, was "I was like, ummm, yeah." While he does hold a high school diploma and will be attending art school in San Diego at some point in the future, he wasn't all that bright, so I am almost certain that he has no idea that he'll be eagerly fellating men in less than five years, not that there's anything wrong with that.
• Saturday morning, I was jarringly introduced to the psychosis of antiquers. The sale didn't start until 10. That's what the signs said; that's what the ads said. Nonetheless, people started showing up at 8:30, pestering us while we were putting stuff out on the front lawn and getting ready. Some mustached fiftysomething hard-on wearing an LA "Daw-gers" hat with a flat bill and his barrel-shaped wife asked me at least 5 times whether or not we were about ready to open up. Each time, I told them that we weren't starting until 10. By the time 10 rolled around, there was a line 50 deep, even though it was raining. The aforementioned mustached man, who was first in line, actually rang the doorbell and screamed through the screen door, "It's 10 o'clock! Open up!" Then they bought nothing. I hope they died on the way back to their house.
• Also on Saturday morning, at around 8:45, one of the neighbors ("Don") from across the street came over and asked if he could help us set up. Of course, we said, even though we had never met him. We had not priced any of the myriad tools that we were selling, so we made the mistake of asking Don if he knew anything about tools. It is still unclear to me whether he does or not, but he spent an hour with my aunt, going through every tool and telling us how much we should charge. Apparently, Don's ability to price old tools is about as good as Larry Flynt's ability to dunk a basketball. His prices were so prohibitive as to discourage bargaining in any manner. I eventually had to mark all of the tools half off, and even then, they were too expensive.
• Saturday night I had two dinners because "no thanks" is a phrase with which old Italian women are not familiar. After we ate at the nextdoor neighbors' house, we went to visit some family friends, a 90-year-old Italian woman and her seventysomething niece. As you would expect, they made 2 cookie-sheet-sized pizzas for the 5 of us, even though we told them we wouldn't be eating with them. I was also asked 147 times whether I wanted anything to drink, followed by "you sure?" after I said no. Eventually I just got a glass of water so they would pipe down. I am very grateful that Jessie is not Italian.
• Luckily on Sunday I got to leave before the sale started because I had to get back to the Mistake By The Lake to catch my flight home. From the airplane, although I had a window seat, I could not tell if the river was on fire.

This whole weekend made me realize one thing: I never want to go to Erie again.

Dammit You Guys

So at about 3:15, I go online to see if it's getting close to 25,000 yet, and this is the screen that greets me:
So, let's make it the 26,000th visitor this time.

Midwestern Eavesdropping - 8/17/06

MAJOR MWE ANNOUNCEMENT: In light of the fact that this is my blog and I can pretty much do whatever the hell I want with it, I am opening up Midwestern Eavesdropping beyond the Midwest. So, if you've ever lived in the Midwest but aren't anymore, or if you're from the Midwest and visiting a place that is outside the friendly parameters of the Midwest, feel free to sumbit your eavesdroppings to gmyhblog@yahoo.com for inclusion in Midwestern Eavesdropping.

It's been a couple weeks. Thanks to everyone who submitted.

Relatively attractive mid-20s blond female in a systems training class:
Teacher: "To move back to the previous screen, press F7. Or to move ahead a screen, press F8."
Blonde: "Wow. It's been a long time since I F'd anything."
--Charlotte, NC, business office
Eavesdropper: Yehday

Bum: "Yo, yo... hey, my man, listen, we're going to have a wine tasting here later this evening... you ah, you wanna contribute?"
--Chicago, State & Ohio
Eavesdropper: RobD

Store intercom: "Natalie to the crickets, please. Natalie to the crickets."
--Chicago, PetSmart, Broadway & Diversey
Eavesdroppers: GMYH and Jesterio

Disgruntled male to inept co-worker: "Mike, you are making me so angry that my eyeball almost exploded!"
--Chicago, office building
Eavesdropper: Uter

Twentysomething chick stumbling around, obviously hammered, coming from the general direction of some port-a-potties: "Oh my God, I peed all over myself. I'm not even gonna lie."
--Chicago, Grant Park, Lollapalooza
Eavesdropper: GMYH

One Blonde and one Brunette talking about their dogs:
Brunette: "How old is he?"
Blonde: "One. How old is your Golden?"
Brunette: "He's already four! I hope he's alive a long time."
Blonde: "Yeah, my parents just put down their Golden. He was 17."
Brunette: "I LOVE that story!!"
--Dayton, OH, sprawling bachelor pad
Eavesdroppers: NaviKate and Mounty

Twentysomething douche talking very loudly on his cell phone in an extremely long ATM line, trying way too hard to impress the girl on the other end of the phone: "What? You mean the dance movie? [pause] You can't dance. [pause] We're gonna take dance lessons together and I'll teach you how to dance. I love to dance. We're gonna dance."
--Chicago, U.S. Cellular Field
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Twentysomething guy at a bar: "Great ass. You could eat eggrolls off those butt-cheeks."
--Royal Oak, MI, O'Toole's bar
Eavesdropper: RobD

Fiftysomething woman (after staring at the ground the entire elevator ride shaking her head in disgust), getting out of elevator in lobby to man that she apparently knew, who was getting on the elevator, with sheer contempt in her voice: "Number 33. [short pause for effect] Can you believe it Ralph?"
--Chicago, 150 N. Wacker
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Three-year-old boy with red curly hair to devastatingly attractive twentysomething female librarian, upon seeing the librarian's dog: "Your dog looks like a ninja!"
--Chicago, Sheffield and Schubert
Eavesdropper: Jesterio

Three teenage African-American boys, looking across the street at a line forming outside the Chicago Theatre and at the theatre's marquee, and one boy says: "What the fuck is a 'widespread panic'?"
--Chicago, State Street, in between Randolph & Lake
Eavesdropper: Crazy Legs

Thirtysomething woman to building security guard standing near elevator bank, upon walking into the building (but before trying the elevators), in a tone as if this is an everyday question: "Are all your elevators working properly?"
--Chicago, 120 W. Madison
Eavesdropper: GMYH

So there you have it. Thanks again to everyone who contributed. Keep up the good work. The rest of you, keep those ears open.

This will be the last post for a few days, as I am going to Erie, PA -- which I assume to be slightly less fun than a Scranton or a Wilkes-Barre -- to help my mom and my aunt administer a sweet estate sale at their dead uncle's house. There will be a noticeable lack of computers at the house, accompanying the noticeable lack of air conditioning, post-1975 TVs, digital clocks, microwaves, fun, and hope.

Nearing 25,000

We are nearing the 25,000th visitor to GMYH. If you are Mr., Mrs., Ms., Miss, or Dr. 25,000, email me at gmyhblog@yahoo.com (preferably with a screen shot showing the 25,000, just in case there are multiple claimants -- for a screen shot, press Ctrl + Print Screen, then paste it into the body of the email), and you will one day have a mildly entertaining fake biography written about you on GMYH, thus ensuring that people looking information about you through Google will be horribly misled.

And yes, I know I am hideously overdue at writing Mr. 15,000's bio, but I swear to you that I am working on it, and it will be posted at some point (certainly before the 25,000 bio).

JonBenet's Murderer Has Confessed

Well, they finally found the guy who Patsy Ramsey hired to kill her daughter JonBenet. I don't know about you, but I find it extremely convenient that Patsy Ramsey died last year of "ovarian cancer" (whatever that may be), a mere 14 months before her daughter's killer was brought to justice after confessing in Thailand, thereby escaping her own implication for solicitation of murder. Right now she's basking on some Caribbean island -- probably the one with David Copperfield's Fountain of Youth -- laughing her ass off, with a Mai Tai in one hand and a Latin man's member in the other.

Here is an actual quote from the article (with added emphasis): "It's been a very long 10 years, and I'm just sorry Patsy isn't here for me to hug her neck," said Lin Wood, the family's longtime attorney. What I think Wood meant to say was, "I'm just sorry Patsy isn't here for me to hug her neck, not unlike the manner in which John Mark Karr hugged JonBenet's little neck until she stopped breathing, as ordered by Patsy ten years ago."

Frankly, I never saw what the big deal was about JonBenet's death. So she was a six-year-old beauty pageant contestant who was undoubtedly pushed too hard by her wealthy parents who were overcompensating for their own shortcomings, and when she didn't win a particular pageant, she suffered the consequences. By now, JonBenet would have been (if anything) a drugged-out teenager singing shitty, canned pop music, romantically linked to the likes of Daniel Radcliffe, Aaron Carter, the kid who played Ray in Jerry Maguire, and Gary Glitter. Karr merely saved the world from having to deal with another Britney Spears.

Fountain of Lies -- Er, I Mean Youth

In case you haven't heard, master alchemist and Wiccan overlord David Copperfield (the dude, not the book) claims to have discovered the Fountain of Youth. According to the article this fountain is conveniently located on a private island in the Bahamas owned by Copperfield that happens to house a resort that you are more than welcome to rent out for $300,000 a week. Copperfield claims that dead leaves come back to life when they touch the fountain's water and that near-death bugs fly away after contacting the water. I question how he knows whether a bug is near death or not, but then again this guy made the Statue of Liberty disappear, so he's got a leg up on me.

Even more convenient than the fact that the fountain is on his own private $300,000-a-week island is that Copperfield is not inviting humans to swim in it or drink from it yet. It seems to me that it couldn't hurt to have a really old dude just dip his pinky finger in there or something, but nonetheless, Copperfield said that he has hired biologists and geologists to examine the potential effect on humans.

So let me get this straight. A guy who has built his whole life around deceiving people claims to have discovered something that could prevent death, which happens to be located on his own island, and he will not let any other human come into contact with it? I find this extremely ironic because just the other day I found a baby mastadon in my bathtub, fighting a baby stegosaurus. I separated them, and I have been keeping them in separate rooms, feeding them and nuturing them. I really want to donate them to the Brookfield Zoo, so that the whole world can share in my unbelievable discovery. But the thing is, I have to make sure some scientists check it out first, in order to determine if I'm entirely full of shit.

AL Wild Card
1. White Sox 71-47 --
2. Minnesota 69-49 2.0
3. Boston 68-50 3.0

NL Wild Card
1. Cincinnati 61-58 --
2. Arizona 60-59 1.0
2. San Diego 60-59 1.0
4. Philly 58-60 2.5
5. Colorado 58-61 3.0
6. Astros 57-62 4.0
7. Milwaukee 56-63 5.0
7. San Fran 56-63 5.0

The Day of 1000 Videos

Well, more like 16, but you get the point. Before getting to the plethora of videos Tron has sent to me in the past several weeks, I would like everyone who participated in the voting for DJ McKinizie's bid to become the next DJ at 93.1 in Indy to know that she won. So, congrats to DJ McKinzie, and good luck. I expect nothing more than a daily shout-out to GMYH, telling your listeners to visit this site and resort to false idolatry by worshipping its every word.

In other random news, Jessie was watching NBC's Today Show this morning while I was getting ready for work, after a totally killer workout, which is ironic because there was a segment about how some women like a man with a little flab. Nice try Satan. In case you haven't heard, Satan owns GE, which owns NBC, which produces this show, which was trying to get me to stop working out so that I can die before I've done anything good in my life and, thus, be forced to spend eternity at a Purdue pep rally emceed by Kathy Griffin and featuring the musical stylings of Steely Dan, Creed, and Ashlee Simpson.

Satan also owns and operates Procter & Gamble, the world's largest consumer products company. There has been at least one source -- some random dude protesting outside P&G's headquarters in Cincinnati a couple years ago -- who has indicated that much of P&G's business is in fact not related to the production household goods, but rather, to killing babies. At first it doesn't make sense. Why would a company that makes so many goods for babies actually kill off a large segment of its target market? But then you remember that P&G is run by Satan, who would rather have fresh babies to feed to Mindy Cohn (I assume she's dead) than turn a profit.

Speaking of P&G, Tron has sent me a ton of video links for everyone's enjoyment. Here they are:

1. Small dog humps Barney doll.
2. A biker gets hit by a car and lands on his feet, then parades around yelling at things.
3. Steaker at a rodeo gets pummeled by a cop in a cowboy hat.
4. Idiot jumps from roof to trampoline. Almost.
5. Mike O'Connell (whoever that is) song "What's It Going to Be?" (might not be safe for work)
6. Kid wearing bucket over head at batting cages.
7. Yogi Bear and Boo-Boo in Jellystoned Park. Pretty funny.
8. Braveheart trailer parody given Mel Gibson's recent misgivings.
9. Trailer for the Borat movie, which looks like it's going to be hilarious.
10. Parody of eHarmony called Minor Match Maker.
11. A video from YouTube that I was unable to view because YouTube was under construction.
12. A public urination folly.
13. Bas Rutten with some unbelievably helpful tips for street fighting and bar fighting. His "no I'm not" move at the end it pretty good.
14. Not a video, but a picture of a blurb in an Australian newspaper about some crazy Aussies doing what crazy Aussies do (i.e., crazy shit).
15. Bushisms movie that I haven't been able to view yet, but I assume is funny.
16. For an awkward, unnaturally scripted, lifeless recruiting video featuring two young female attorneys, check out the second video down on the page. (The person who sent me this link shall go unnamed, for fear of retribution from said attorneys.)

So there you have it. Also, please make sure to send me your submissions for Midwestern Eavesdropping, at gmyhblog@yahoo.com.

AL Wild Card
1. White Sox 71-46 --
2. Boston 68-49 3.0
3. Minnesota 68-49 3.0

NL Wild Card
1. Cincinnati 61-57 --
2. San Diego 60-58 1.0
3. Arizona 59-59 2.0
4. Colorado 58-60 3.0
5. Philly 57-60 3.5
6. Astros 57-61 4.0

The Night of 1000 Arguments

The weekend was a bell curve of activity. Friday night Jessie and I laid low, deciding to go to Penny's for dinner and then take Harley on a long walk in lieu of something more fulfilling.

Saturday I went to the Sox game at 12:20 with Morgan "Crazy Legs" Hirst. I met him and his wife Melissa at 10:15 a.m. at McGee's, a local dram shop that also serves food. Before I got to McGee's, I witnessed a yelling match that I thought was fairly strange. Two men, who appeared to be in their early thirties, we yelling at each other from across the corner of Sheffield and Webster. This was not fun yelling, like the kind I engage in when I'm drunk at 10 in the morning. This was some hate-filled yelling, like the kind Jessie engages in when I'm drunk at 10 in the morning. One guy was standing on the southwest corner of the street bashing the hell out of a pay phone with the phone's receiver, as if the person on the other end of the line had just told him his dog was ritualistically murdered by a pack of ravenous Satanic midgets, and then they banged his mom and slashed his tires. Then the dude starts yelling at this guy in an orange shirt standing kitty corner across the intersection. Here is a very close approximation of what he said: "So what?! So now I'm abusing public property. But what about ME?! I was someone's property, and no one cared when I got abused." His argument made little sense, given that I had no context. I'm sure it's nothing that a little masturbation can't cure.

I made my way into McGee's as quickly as possible so that I didn't get murdered. I ordered a Bloody Mary as soon as I got there, taking my first sip at approximately 10:19. The next 16 hours are somewhat of a mystery to me. Here is what I do remember:

• On the way to the game, while we were stopped at one of the Red Line stops in the Loop, there was a group of geriatric women on the platform who were all decked out in pinks and lavenders. This picture doesn't really do it justice, but I think you can make out several of the ladies. I assume they were part of one of those clubs that bored old women form that revolve around wearing stupid-looking pastel hats.
• Our seats at the game were pretty good. They were on the left field foul line, about 5 rows up. While the seats did not bring us any foul balls, I did come home with a t-shirt that was thrown into the crowd by some Chevrolet-related band of rogues. When others were unable to catch a balled-up configuration of cotton softly thrown into the first several rows of the stands, I was there to grab it off the ground.
• After the game, Morgan and I did not get back home via an elevated train. Instead, we met up with one of his buddies who drove to the game in style, in his nineteen-sixty-something Cadillac convertible. Despite the fact that I was unable to locate a seatbelt in the back seat, the ride home was undeniably more enjoyable than it would have been on the L. Here are a couple shots of the car. The first is an action shot from the drive home, and the second is a shot of the car in its final resting place in its owner's garage. It's a pretty sweet fucking car, eh?
• We went back to McGee's. Against their better interests, Jessie and Melissa met us there. I had a weird tasting grilled cheese sandwich there. Their waffle fries taste like stupid.
• While at McGee's, I was introduced to the O-Bomb, a dangerously delicious shot forged by Loki and Satan and sent to Earth from the depths of the netherworld to destroy me. Based on my calculations and discernible lack of memories, I estimate that I had somewhere between 40 and 60 O-Bombs.
• I must have been well aware of my level of intoxication because I left an absurd number of voice memos for myself on my cell phone. This is an extremely fun and effective way of reliving what would otherwise be a forgotten night.
• According to a voice memo, I explained to myself that Morgan thinks "Badge" is a better Cream song than "White Room." The tone of my voice suggested that I disagreed vehemently at the time.
• According to another voice memo, I explained to myself that there was some sort of argument as to what was a more important album, Sticky Fingers by The Rolling Stones, or The Joshua Tree by U2. As if I wouldn't know what my side of this argument would be when I was sober, I explained to myself that I thought Sticky Fingers was the obvious choice. I vaguely remember touting the opening riff of "Can't You Hear Me Knocking" as the greatest riff in rock and roll history and that alone was enough to make Sticky Fingers more important than Joshua Tree.
• Yet another voice memo was four seconds, and in a sullen, muted voice, I said, "Just saw Countryman." And I just now remembered that I saw a guy whose last name is Countryman who is very good friend's with a former roommate of mine.
• Another voice memo informed me of another terribly unwinnable argument for either side: who is more important to modern culture, Tolstoy or The Beatles? I said, and I still say, The Beatles. My friends didn't die face down in the muck so this strumpet, this whore, could -- I don't know where this is going, so I'm just going to stop it.
• Jessie found out that her family got a new dog, Nancy (shown below). Nancy is a boy. When I inquired as to why Lizzie was referring to Nancy as "he," she explained that "he is a sissy."
• At some point we went to Morgan and Melissa's hizzie. Based on the time stamps on my voice memos, this journey took place sometime between 9 and 10. I do remember buying beer on the way there and paying $20.57 for a 2 6-packs and a 2-liter bottle of 7Up. If a clerk from a liquor store on Halsted somewhere between Webster and North is found bludgeoned to death with a full bottle of Amstel Light, this may be my last post.
• While at Morgan and Melissa's pad, we went up onto their 3rd-story deck, where we listened to some Beatles while drinking champagne and the aforementioned hideously expensive beer. At one point I think a champagne bottle made its way from the deck to the ground, and the only detail I can be sure of about that is that it wasn't me. It was around this point where the whole Beatles/Picasso argument started. At one point, the back of Jessie's head intercepted an errant flip-flop, poorly thrown by Morgan, that was supposed have connected with my head. She was not amused.
• A voice memo time stamped at 10:56 p.m. revealed that I had this profound statement to say: "If there's one I know more about in my life, it's things. Er, more about my life than my wife." Think about that next time you try to argue with me that Picasso was more important than The Beatles.
• At some point, we left Morgan and Melissa's place. On the way home, I got Super Steak Nachos from LaBamba, and I am almost certain that I enjoyed devouring them while stumbling home.
• At 12:29 a.m., I posted the previous post about The Beatles/Picasso argument. After that, I surfed MySpace for anywhere between four minutes and two hours, and then I went to bed.
• In my near-comatose state, I apparently came to the conclusion that I could not have any written account of my night. I got up Sunday morning with hopes of reading the many text messages I undoubtedly sent and received. For some reason, I was actually excited about this prospect. My excitement turned to sheer terror when I turned on my phone to realize that I had deleted every text message in both my inbox and my outbox. Thus, I have no idea who I might have texted or the subjects of said texting. I'm sure it was profound.

Yesterday I was somehow not hungover. Jester and I hung out. She explained that I was an asshole the night before. After pausing to throw up some blood, I explained that I was right, no matter what I said. Then we did some laundry, and I went to my class at Second City. Bell curve.

AL Wild Card
1. White Sox 70-46 --
2. Boston 68-48 2.0
3. Minnesota 68-49 2.5

NL Wild Card
1. Cincinnati 61-57 --
2. San Diego 60-57 0.5
3. Arizona 59-58 1.5
4. Colorado 57-60 3.5
4. Astros 57-60 3.5
6. Philly 56-60 4.0

Riddle Me This . . .

Who is more important in the history of the world, The Beatles or Pablo Picasso?

This was the argument Jessie and I had tonight (and Morgan and Melissa). Personally, I say The Beatles because everyone can buy a Beatles album for $10.99, and everyone can listen to a Beatles album over and over again and love it just as much as the first time they've ever heard it. You can look at a Picasso and love it, but you can't love it over and over again like you can love Revolver. You can't sing along to a Picasso at 3 in the morning and think "this song might be about me." You can look at it and think, "Man, that guy could paint," but you can't sing along to it like "I'm a Loser" and think that no one has ever understood you like John did with that song, even though it was written 13 years before you were born.

Music, thanks to The Beatles, transcends art. Quick, name a current popular artist (i.e., a painter). Odds are that you can't. If I would have asked you to name a popular musician or music group, you could probably name several hundred. You know why? John, Paul, George, and Ringo. In 300 years, people will remember Picasso as a great painter, but people will remember The Beatles as the four Liverpudlians who defined modern music, just as much as Beethoven or Mozart did several hundred years ago. To be blunt, no one gives a shit about painters anymore, at least not like musicians.

Let me know what you think about this argument: who is more important in the history of the world, The Beatles or Picasso?

"I Saw Red When I Opened Up the Door"

Well, Hair Band Friday is back, and it's just okay today. Much of my day has been spent writing letters to clients while being fellated by some chick named Mandi who was force-feeding me phenobarbital beforehand, while Warrant's "I Saw Red," Cinderella's "Nobody's Fool," and Winger's "Miles Away" blasted at like 500db from my computer speakers. Then I was parsing through some files looking for some discovery requests while two nameless chicks totally got it on on top of my desk. Same old same old. This is getting boring every week. I don't know if I even want to have Hair Band Friday anymo -- whoa! Holy shit, the Dexedrine just kicked in. Nevermind what I just said. Hair Band Friday will live forever. For-fucking-ever, man! I'm gonna do like fifty chicks in a row right after I get done rearranging my office. Have you ever felt like you could jump over a fucking mountain? 'Cause I can. Right now. And if I have to sprint to Colorado to get to a mountain formidable enough to present me with a challenge, I'll do it. I'll fucking do it! Aaaaaaggggghhhhhh!! I've never felt so alive.

I have two bits of Saved By The Bell related news. I'll start with the bad news. It appears that Screech, who I guess has a real name (it's Dustin Diamond -- who knew?), is once again making headlines. It seems like just yesterday he was pleading with America to buy shitty t-shirts in order to help him raise money to avoid foreclosure on his house. Well now, some crazy woman, probably named Violet, tried to attack Screech in his Omaha hotel room. He said that the woman broke into his hotel room and grabbed some video games. Then Screech pulled out some moves he learned that one time when he had to sub for Slater on the Bayside wrestling team, and he held this woman against the door until police arrived. That must have been an awkward 30 minutes ("You mean you seriously don't know who I am? You just wanted to steal my video games? Come on. Screech? That doesn't ring a . . . bell? No? Nothing? I'll let you go if you buy a t-shirt."). The woman claimed that Screech assaulted her, so the police didn't file charges because it was a "case of he said, she said." The article makes it a point to note that Screech's current stand-up show is an "18-and-older" show. Poor Screech. Can't anything go right for him? First Lisa, then foreclosure, and now this. By the way, I love how the file photo accompanying the story is one with Screech, Leif Garrett, Danny Bonaduce, Barry Williams, and Corey Feldman. I bet the coke was flyin' off the mirrors at that get-together.

On a much brighter note, loyal GMYH reader Jaleh sent me the link for a phenomenal Saved By The Bell inspired t-shirt, featuring a giant old cell phone, not unlike the one Zack Morris lugged around Bayside HS. Every one of you probably should own this shirt.

AL Wild Card
1. White Sox 67-46 --
2. Minnesota 67-47 0.5
3. Boston 65-48 2.0

NL Wild Card
1. Cincinnati 59-56 --
2. Arizona 58-56 0.5
2. San Diego 58-56 0.5
4. Astros 56-58 2.5
5. Philly 55-58 3.0
6. Colorado 55-59 3.5
7. Milwaukee 54-60 4.5
7. San Fran 54-60 4.5

No MWE, but SOAP

Midwestern Eavesdropping has only 3 submissions this week. Hence, it will be postponed until next Thursday, and it will include those 3 submissions and the many others that I better receive in the next week. Keep your ears open, and email what you hear to gmyhblog@yahoo.com. I beg you.

I would never -- never -- leave you empty-handed. It appears that you (yes, even you Ryan) can send to your friends, enemies co-workers, paramours, parole officers, and speech pathologists a message from Samuel L. Jackson about the soon-to-be-released greatest movie of all-time, Snakes on a Plane. Just click on this link, and follow the instructions. It's wildly entertaining, and should provide you with nearly as many hours of entertainment as making rockets from Diet Coke and Mentos, thinking up creative ways to kill the cicadas that will invade Chicago next summer, or pacing outside your ex-girlfriend's house waiting for her to get back from her date with that asshole Jim she dumped you for who might have a fucking Audi but he's not as good looking as you are and doesn't understand her like you do and, you know what, so what if it was three years ago and they're engaged now, because you still love her and tonight is going to be the night when she will finally realize that you are right for her and not Jim, and on the chance that Jim is with her when she gets back, if it takes hiding in her bushes with night-vision goggles on to help you get over her, then that's just what you'll have to do because otherwise you'll never know if she's sleeping with, and therefore really in love with, Jim or just dreaming of you while she's sleeping next to him, refusing to have sex with him because she only wants to have sex with you because she still loves you and is trapped in this relationship with an Audi-driving mind-controller who must have her under some sort of hypnotic spell and the only way for her to break the spell is to be kissed by you but she doesn't know that because that's part of the spell, so you'll have to break into her house no matter what to kiss her and to beat Jim to death with a tire iron because otherwise he can just put another spell on her and you don't want to deal with that again, and then you and her will live happily ever after because this whole situation is just proof that you two are destined for each other. I need a nap.

AL Wild Card
1. Minnesota 67-46 --
2. White Sox 66-46 0.5
3. Boston 65-47 1.5

NL Wild Card
1. Cincinnati 59-55 --
2. LA 58-56 1.0
2. Arizona 58-56 1.0
2. San Diego 58-56 1.0
5. Philly 55-58 3.5
5. Colorado 55-58 3.5
5. Astros 55-58 3.5
8. San Fran 54-60 5.0

Shameless Non-Self Promotion

Former IU Pi Kapp and current nice guy (or so I assume) Pat "Proth" Roth emailed me (and everyone else in his address book) with a desperate plea. His wife is in a contest to become the next DJ at a radio station in Indianapolis. The winner will be chosen by the fans, which now include you and me.

Click on this link, which will take you to the contest's home page. Here name is DJ McKinzie. You will immediately recognize her the one who does not have a "face for radio." From what I remember of her, she is an extremely nice person and thus is completely deserving of your support.

In order to ensure victory for her (as explained in the two emails I received from Pat about this contest), click on DJ McKinzie and give her a ten rating, and then give each of her competitiors a one rating. The person with the best average score is the winner. She is currently neck-and-neck with a couple competitors. The contest ends next Monday at 5pm. Pat and DJ McKinzie thank you for your support.

I Have Nothing to Offer You

My life has been terribly boring since Lollapalooza (not that it's usually very exciting). Jessie and I grilled some pork chops and sweet corn last night and ate outside on our apartment's shared patio, prompted by her lovely suggestion (see Jessie, I do have nice things to say about you in my blog). That has been the highlight of my past 2 1/2 days. Work has been a merciless dominatrix, forcing me to do things that I'm simply not comfortable doing. I'm tired, sore, and scared, and I haven't even had time to parse through the myriad video links that Tron has sent me. Aside from death, the only thing I have to look forward to is going to a Sox game Saturday with Crazy Legs Hirst.

Please don't forget that tomorrow is Midwestern Eavesdropping. I currently have exactly 3 submissions, two of them from me (and aren't that good) and one of them from North Carolina, which is not in the Midwest (although I shall include it because the guy who submitted it is from the Lou and he's proud). Email your submissions to gmyhblog@yahoo.com. If I don't get a few more, I will be forced to postpone it until next week, making my sponsors and benefactors cranky. When they're cranky, I'm cranky. And when I'm cranky, I drink. And when I drink, I get drunk. And when I get drunk, funny shit happens. So actually, postponing doesn't seem like such a bad idea after all.

In random news, a truck in Texas carrying penguins crashed, scattering penguins all over a highway. A few of the penguins were killed when hit by automobiles or by buckshot from passing cars, followed by screams of "yeeeeeehaaaaaawwwww." The remaining penguins were recovered. Luckily none of them had flown away. Thanks to my penguin-loving wife for that link (see hon, I'm nice).

From now until clinching or mathematical elimination for the Sox and Astros, I am going to include daily AL and NL wild card standings (those teams within 5 games). I would include AL Central and NL Central standings, but I am fairly certain that the Sox and Astros will not be winning their respective divisions this year. If they get within 4 or 5 games, I may go Charles Whitman on everyone and put those standings up.

AL Wild Card
1. White Sox 66-45 --
2. Minnesota 66-46 0.5
3. Boston 65-46 1.0

NL Wild Card
1. Cincinnati 58-55 --
1. LA 58-55 --
3. Arizona 57-56 1.0
4. Philly 54-58 3.5
4. Colorado 54-58 3.5
4. Astros 54-58 3.5
7. San Fran 54-59 4.0

By the way, the NL sucks this year.

Lemme Lolla At Ya

Ahh, Lollapalooza. For those of you unfamiliar with this "rock and roll" music the kids are listening to these days, this is the second year in row that Lollapalooza has been one weekend only in one location only: Chicago's Grant Park. This year, there were over 130 bands, and I'd love to say that I saw them all, but I'd also like to tell you that I'm 12 inches (in diameter), and we all know that ain't true. Anywho, this year's festival was 3 days instead of just 2. And it was pret-ty good.

Friday
At approximately noon, two former co-workers of mine from Dayton, Nick "Not the Same Bird-Headed Freak that Used to Play Basketball at Illinois" Smith and his special lady friend Andrea "Killing Herself To" Livingston, showed up at my apartment. We hopped on the Brown Line, and headed downtown.

The temperature on Friday was in the high 80s, and the sun was not encumbered by any of those pesky clouds that you Londoners are so fond of.

We got to the grounds in time to catch the last few songs of The Subways, a delightful British trio that plays straight-up rock 'n' roll. And get this, they have a girl as their bassist. ERA or no ERA, that is some fucking progress. You may know The Subways from their appearance on the greatest show on television, The OC. God I miss The OC. I can't wait for the season premiere when Ryan finishes Volchok Blanka style. The sight of what used to be Volchok's body, but will soon be a soccer-ball-sized mass of flesh and bone crumbs, will certainly be a sight for sore eyes.

It was about this time that we got our second beer. It was also at this time that we realized having a bottle of water with every beer was essential to our survival. It was also around this time that we met up with Jeremy "The Floppy Burrito" Burrito, his girlfriend Shannon "Don't Call Me Midway" O'Hare, and their posse.

Anyway, from The Subways, we headed to see Cursive. Their sound can best be described as that of a cat being murdered slowly and deliberately with a serrated paring knife. After listening to them for three songs, I am proud to say that I still print.

Not wanting to waste any time, we headed to one of the side stages to see Chicago's own The M's (shown to the left -- I was using my telephoto lens). I liked The M's, in part because they had a dude that looked like post-breakdown Brian Wilson (sans the robe or the sandbox in his bedroom, or so I assume), and in part because I could watch them from the shade. Musically, I don't really remember much about them, except that their songs were catchy and generally agreeable. I wouldn't be opposed to having them as my neighbors.

It was around this time when I made my first fearful trip to the port-a-potties. You can imagine my surprise when I happened upon what I believe to be the cleanest port-a-potty of all-time. It turns out that they were all clean. I have never had a more pleasant port-a-potty experience. Not even that one time at IU when a girl had to pee so bad at a tailgate that she came into the shitter with me. Actually, that kind of sucked.

After The M's, we trudged across what Andrea deemed The Desert, which was the wasteland between both main sides of the concert grounds that seemed to take days to traverse. At least we got to look at Buckingham Fountain, which conjured up images of Al Bundy making some comment about how Marcy looked like a chicken. All I could do was laugh because otherwise I would have died, and the last thing I wanted to deal with at that point was a kettle of buzzards.

We got to the other side in time to see the last couple songs of eels, a band I had for some reason built up in my mind to be better than they are, perhaps because eels are badasses or perhaps because of the whole e. e. cummings, throwing punctuation norms out the door thing. At that point I was more concerned with staying drunk and well-hydrated at the same time than with enjoying myself.

After eels, it was Stars, who I would equate to a less rockin' (and therefore less fulfilling) version of Shout Out Louds. Angry that I should have instead seen Editors -- a band with the foresight to hand out hand fans with their band name on them in 90-degree weather -- but I once again made the mistake of trusting Jeremy. Nick, Andrea, and I decided to go our own way, straight-up Lindsey Buckingham style, and get some eats and some shade.

We traveled back across The Desert and parked ourselves back in the shade near the same stage where we had previously seen The M's. Some band called Mute Math was playing, and they were more than tolerable, although I probably could have tolerated Kathy Griffin at that point, so long as I was in the shade.

After that we went back across The Desert for Ryan Adams. It was about at this point when we hit a wall. Sitting in the shade over there and taking a beer off gave us our third winds. Meanwhile, Ryan Adams was pretty good, although he never played Summer of '69.

The aforementioned rest and beer off allowed us to have the strength to travel back across The Desert to see The Secret Machines. As I recall, they were pretty good. They played a nice little brand of rock 'n' roll that didn't sound like a cat getting executed.

After The Secret Machines, it was The Raconteurs, Jack White's side project featuring himself, two dudes from The Greenhornes, and some dude named Brendan Benson. In addition to kicking ass sonically, they also have the best website out of any of the bands in the history of the world. Their show was pretty solid. Jack was in good spirits, and that was none more apparent than when the group busted into a very solid cover of Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy." It was around this time that Tron showed up, only to leave to go find his special lady friend Magdog at My Morning Jacket (yes, across The Desert).

We all met up a little while later at The Violent Femmes, a band whose most popular song is about -- cover your eyes Republicans -- masturbation. They put on a rousing set, much to the liking of Andrea. The Violent Femmes are always a band that I forget about, and I forget how many good songs they have. Maybe now I'll get around to doing what I should have done 12 years ago: steal my brother's Violent Femmes CD.

After The Violent Femmes, Nick, Andrea, and I decided to roll. Our options were Ween or Death Cab for Cutie. Since I only know one Ween song, and I assumed that they weren't going to play "Push th' Little Daisies" over and over again, they were out of the question. With many apologies to Seth Cohen, I personally think Death Cab comes across as a bit whiny and unnecessarily drowsy, but then again I think the same thing about Radiohead, and people seem to like them.

Anyway, we left at that point, and then went (with Jester) to the Burwood for a few beers. The ladies couldn't handle it, so they went home. Nick and I are both fond of alcohol and its intoxicating qualities, so we went back out. First, it was to Grand Central, where Christoff was hanging out with some of his peeps. I'm 108% sure that I was the most underdressed person there, as I was the only one wearing a Maine high school state bass fishing tournament t-shirt that was drenched in a day's worth of sweat. It's not one of those shirts that's supposed to be ironic. I actually bought it at a Goodwill in Maine. Anyway, while there some girl (completely unprovoked) expressed her opinion that she was smarter than me. I asked her to prove it, and she then asked me how I wanted her to prove it. I wanted desperately to explain to her that if she was smarter than me, then she should know how to prove it, but I figured she probably already knew that.

After Grand Central, Nick and I did not feel that we had yet reached a suitable level of inebriation, so we went to Deja Vu (for you non-Chicagoans, there is a 4am bar about a block from my apartment called Deja Vu, which I am certain is the only entity named Deja Vu in the world that is not a strip club). It's a dance club. I hate dancing. So does Nick. Hence, we sat on a pool table that they for some reason have in there, and we drank until it closed.

Saturday
When Jessie awoke me at 9:11 on Saturday morning, I assumed she was playing one of those horribly unfunny practical jokes that wives like to play on husbands -- you know, the ones where they wake their husbands up on a Saturday morning for the sole reason that they are awake and refuse to be awake when their husbands are not. It turns out I was right. And it also turns out I was still a little drunk, but at least I wasn't going to work.

Nick, Andrea, Jester and I went to Clarke's for breakfast, which is always a wise choice. After that, Nick and Andrea headed off to explore Chicago before the Jimmy Buffett concert they were to attend that evening, and Jester and I prepared for a long day in the sun by playing a one-sided game of Don't Drink Too Much Today Andrew. I tried to play We Need to Be There By Noon So I Can See Be Your Own Pet, but Jessie was not very receptive, such that we had to take a cab down there instead of the train.

We got there about 12:06, which upset me because Be Your Own Pet was only going to be on for 30 minutes, and they were one of the bands that I most wanted to see. I've been listening to BYOP for almost 2 years, after I read about them in Rolling Stone. You would be able to see them in the photo to the left, if it were at all a decent picture. They are four teenagers from Nashville, and they play good old punk, mixed in with some good old rock 'n' roll. Unfortunately their music doesn't translate as well as it could live. They are tighter and more understandable on CD. Their saucy blond lead singer Jemina Pearl Abegg has the potential to be a much hotter and more normal version of Courtney Love. The group is still as young and innocent as a group who tours the US and UK getting drunk can be, which lent itself to the rare moment when a rock 'n' roller talks to the crowd and seems genuine and normal. Upon seeing the sign for the King Tut exhibit draped from the Field Museum off in the distance, Abegg mentioned that if she lived in Chicago she would probably go see that exhibit because it would probably be pretty cool. Then she puked on stage before the last song.

After BYOP, Jessie insisted that we visit the AT&T Digital Oasis tent, which turned out to be a mildly decent idea, since they were handing out free handheld battery-powered fans. Once we got our fans, we listened to Living Things, who I thought sounded a bit like Louis XIV (who played Lollapalooza last year and rocked the hizzie).

After Living Things, we met up once again with The Floppy Burrito and his posse for what turned out to be what I think was the best show of the weekend: The Go! Team. I knew absolutely nothing about The Go! Team before their show, other than the 30-second sample I heard on the Lollapalooza website. I can't really describe what they sounded like because they were different than anything I've heard before, and many of their songs were different than each other. If you put Rage Against the Machine, ABBA, Beastie Boys, Faith No More, Sly & The Family Stone, and the Spice Girls into a blender, The Go! Team would be the resulting smoothie. They are incapable of being classified into any one genre. As you can probably tell from the picture, the band members were a mélange of characters, from the energetic black female lead singer named Ninja who was in kind of a cheerleading outfit, to the various dudes who would switch off between playing the drums, guitars, and piano, to the girl who is possibly an Inuit who played drums and sang one song. I was impressed, not only by their energy, but because they didn't really sound like anything I'd every heard before.

The dizzying high I was on after The Go! Team soon turned to hunger. While Jester and I walked to get something to eat, we heard the musical stylings of Oh No! Oh My!, who we both agreed was good, but not worth passing up Connie's Pizza to hear. While eating, I explained to Jester that I really wanted to get back to one particular stage so that we could get a good spot for Wolfmother, which was the band at Lollapalooza that I most wanted to see. Jessie wanted to get ice cream. After she explained to me that I am self-centered (which I was unable to deny -- what can I say, I love to do things that make me happy, even when they make other people cry), we went to the ice cream stand that was on the outskirts of The Desert and had a line that ensured I would not be able to get a close spot to see the band that I most wanted to see out of the 130 bands at this festival that happens once a year. A half hour later, we finally got our ice cream.

The only bright side to what has now been dubbed Operation Kill Andrew's Spirits is that I saw an awesome t-shirt on the walk to get ice cream. It read: "Shakespeare hates your shitty emo poems." Amen to that.

Plus, it allowed us to easily meet up with fellow Pi Kapp and former IU student body president, La'Maze "Space Jam" Johnson. Maze, as the ladies call him, is perhaps the only student body president who was also a member of CALM. He is one of the most laid back guys I know, although one time in college he tried to argue with me that Michael Jordan dunked from the half-court line. Here's approximately how the conversation went:
Maze: "[blah blah blah], like that one time Michael Jordan dunked from the half-court line in the middle of a game."
Me: "You mean the free throw line?"
Maze: "No man, he dunked from the half-court line."
Me: "No one has ever dunked from the half-court line. Jordan dunked from the free throw line in the Slam Dunk Contest in 1988."
Maze. "No man, I saw him dunk from the half-court line."
Me: "The world record in the long jump is like 29 feet. The half-court line is about 47 feet from the basket. It's not possible."
Maze: "I'm telling you I saw him do it. Maybe it was the three-point line, but I saw him and I swear it was the half-court line."
Me: "He has never dunked from the half-court line, nor has he ever dunked from the three-point line."
Maze (having an epiphany and smiling): "Yeah he -- awww, you know what? I'm thinking of Space Jam."

Anyway, Maze, Jessie, and I headed over to see Wolfmother from an ungodly far distance. Nonetheless, Wolfmother rocked. For those who don't know them, they are an Australian trio that plays an unabashed form of rock 'n' roll akin to Black Sabbath and early Led Zeppelin. I wish I would have been able to see them without the aid of a Jumbotron.

After Wolfmother, the three of us met up with yet another IU Pi Kapp, none other than Bryon "Pin Brother" Reina. I had seen him about a month ago from across an L platform, although I entered his phone number wrong, so attempts to contact him telephonically had proved fruitless. He looks the exact same as he did in college, which is a good thing, since it means he hasn't gotten a gut like I have.

The four of us trudged across the field to see Gnarls Barkley, who I think you should check out if you like Outkast or funky ass shit. While watching Gnarls Barkley, we ran into fellow IU law grads Jacob "I Totally Wish I Worked in the Same Building As Him" Sheehan, Mike "Claims to Work in the Same Building as Me But I've Never Seen Him" Ray, and Dave "Has Never Worked in the Same Building As Me" Moore. Pleasantries were exchanged.

After Gnarls Barkley, we crossed The Desert once again, to go see the Dresden Dolls. On the way there, we stopped for a few minutes to see Blackalicious. Had their been a house there, they would have done a formidable job of bringing it down.

We then made our way to The Dresden Dolls, who I didn't know much about, except that they seemed very interesting. Their music is described (by them) as Brechtian punk cabaret, which makes very little sense until you see them or listen to their music. The group is only two people, some chick who plays the piano and sings and some dude who plays the drums. They both dress up and paint their faces. However, I thought they were particularly cool because their whole schtick is kind of a burlesque, cabaret type thing, but the girl was not afraid to break character and take her heavy outer dress off. As she said, "It's way too fucking hot for this dress." They had an awesome cover of Black Sabbath's "War Pigs," which is my favorite Black Sabbath song. In high school I once wrote out the lyrics to the song and showed them too my mom as if I had written them myself. She was concerned and I think a bit disturbed by the images of the apocalypse it conjured up. Nonetheless, being supportive of my creative side, she said, somewhat hesitantly, "Huh. It's pretty dark. Good, but dark." Then I had to go to a special camp for a couple months.

While the Dresden Dolls were wrapping up, Reina and I went to go get some food. This proved to be a much bigger task than anticipated. We ended up going to the stand with the shortest line, which still took us at least 32 minutes to get through. It was a pan-Italian restaurant, which was selling pot stickers and BBQ ribs. I'm not sure where the ribs fit into the pan-Italian theme, but they were serviceable.

We got back to the other two after The Flaming Lips were already a couple songs into their set. I know very little of the Flaming Lips' catalog, but they seemed enjoyable, and they always have a sweet stage show and sweet props. The lead singer was convinced that if the audience sang loud enough, it would stop Israel from bombing Lebanon. He was wrong. Jessie was not impressed.

After they ended, we crossed The Desert one last time to check out The New Pornographers, a band that Maze was particularly excited about seeing. They were pretty good, although the lead singer's lisp was a little annoying. He seemed to be pumped that he was playing in between Common and Kanye West, perhaps because more people were there than would normally be.

With a few songs to go, we headed across the field to set up camp for Kanye West, who you made have heard of. We ended up randomly seeing the aforementioned IU law guys, so we hung out with them. Before the show started, I looked behind us and no less than 15 feet away are fellow IU Pi Kapps Phil "Basada Sebahida La Smatala Sima" Wierzbinski and Dave "Don't Call Me Eddie" Vedder, along with IU Pi Kapp little sister Anjana "I Still Can't Believe She's a Dentist" Gupta. While talking to them, we randomly saw two other IU Pi Kapps, Nick "Don't Confuse Me with Wire or Pryor" Meyer and Vince "Just Drove from Philly to Seattle for a Chick" Gravina. Who needs Homecoming when you have Lollapalooza?

Here are some okay shots of the Chicago skyline from the field before Kanye started. As you can probably tell, the anticipation was palpable.

Unfortunately, the audio was screwed up for the first few songs. The Jessie and I decided to beat the rush and leave early. Weak, I know. On my way out, I did get my second Lollapalooza poster in as many years. Strong, I know.

Saturday night we pretty much went straight to bed, on account of the exhaustion.

Sunday
Sunday morning I helped Greg "Suburban" Bohmann load up his Budget truck for his big move out to a house in Downers Grove. It was one of the smoothest moves I've ever been a part of, and I have come to the conclusion that it was so smooth because there were six males and zero females involved.

After the move, I headed back home, and then Jester and I headed down to Grant Park. The first band I wanted to see Sunday was The Hold Steady (you can actually make out human beings in this picture). Blender Magazine called them the best bar band in the world, and Esquire named their first album (Almost Killed Me) one of the top 25 albums of the new millennium, noting that people who would like the album would be people who used to listen to AC/DC, but now read a lot. Since I hate to read, I bought their second album, Separation Sunday. The Hold Steady plays pretty much straight-forward rock, but lead singer Craig Finn half sings and half talks. His lyrics are extremely interesting, and are very smart.

Anyway, we were able to get there early enough so that we were only about 15 feet from the stage. They put on a hell of a show. Everyone in the band was drinking cans of Budweiser products. Finn was animated and sometimes spasmodic. The keyboardest looked kind of like Andy Kaufman with a Rollie Fingers mustache, and he was wearing a black three-piece suit with a black shirt and a red tie, in stark contrast to the other four guys, who were wearing jeans and either t-shirts or short-sleeve button-up shirts. Finn thanked the crowd several times for coming out to watch them, and he seemed very genuine in doing so. All in all, I was impressed by them. Not Go! Team impressed, but still pretty damn impressed. I would definitely see them again in concert.

After they finished up, we sat through about half of Leif Garrett's -- I mean Ben Kweller's -- set. It was pretty good, but I had to leave an hour later anyway, so we just left.

Sunday evening, while most people who spent $130-$170 on Lollapalooza were enjoying the likes of Matisyahu, The Shins, Wilco, Queens of the Stone Age, Blues Traveler, and Red Hot Chili Peppers, I had my first comedy writing class at Second City. It seems like it will be a great time, and who knows, maybe after the 5 or 6 more classes I have to take, I will be inviting you all to attend Give Me Your Handrew, the stage version.

After my class got done, Jester, Tron, Magdog, and I headed over to the Burwood for Hillbilly Sunday, since Tron doesn't get to experience anything redneckish in southwestern Ohio. The plan was to stay for an hour. Of course as soon as I got there (before I even ordered my first beer), I was given a free shot of Beam. We strolled out of there around 1:15, which was fine for Tron and Magdog, since they didn't have to work on Monday. Not good for me, since my week is essentially ruined as far as sleeping goes.

So there you have it. Next year you should go to Lollapalooza. It it definitely worth the money, assuming of course that you like good music from a variety of genres.