Making People Squirm, or People Making Sperm

I have an acquaintance whom I'd like to keep anonymous, so I will simply refer to her as Lily Happyhappyhappygoat.

Ms. Happyhappyhappygoat works for a medical research facility that conducts clinical research trials.

I won’t tell you the name of the company she works for, but it is a better facility than some of the previous places she has worked at in the same field. In fact, I could tell you horror stories that would scare you into giving up prescription drugs altogether. Perhaps another time.

Lily Happyhappyhappygoat's company regularly conducts many studies on “healthy” individuals, because it’s logical to first test new drugs on stronger people in case there are unforeseen side effects or complications.

A healthy person might experience discomfort from a test drug, but an unhealthy person might experience death. That is why Phase I studies are rarely tested on 90-year-old people afflicted with various devastating diseases.

Not all studies are trying to cure cancer, stem the tide of Multiple Sclerosis, or ward off dementia in Alzheimer’s patients. Some are for vitamins. Some are to help people stop smoking. Still others are designed to measure how a medication might affect sperm production in men (something we all should be vastly concerned with since the population of Earth is estimated to only be 6.8 billion or so as of July 1, 2009).

Oh, did I mention that the participants are paid to be part of a study? Imagine getting paid to masturbate. We live in a truly wacky (no pun intended) and wonderful world.

Incidentally, Lily invited me to one such study a while back. It’s not that she felt I was extremely talented in sperm production, or, at least, I don’t think so.

I had to say “no” to the study. I strictly adhered to my own “no sperm” policy that forbids me to ejaculate at any acquaintance’s place of employment. Call me old-fashioned, but I just don’t want her co-workers (whom I also know) saying “Hey man, what’s up?” as I walk by with a plastic sample cup in my hand.

Talk about a loaded question.

That kind of thing (i.e. people making sperm) is known to make people squirm, which brings me to the “Velvet Room” at Lily’s work.

They actually have a room designated for these trials where participants go in to produce sperm samples. The Velvet Room is the nickname the facility’s staff have given it. (Ha, ha, medical researchers crack me up!)

Inside that room is a comfy chair in the middle with a long roll of paper covering it (like the kind you would find at a dental or doctor’s office). Thus, you can rip off an old layer and pull down a new one. That isn’t even remotely the craziest thing in the room.

The craziest thing is that there is a small fold-up chair placed adjacent to the comfy one. (There are also porno movies and magazines strewn throughout, as well, which can be pretty damn crazy in their own right, especially if titles like Dude, Where’s My Dildo? offend you).

I was once told that the fold-up chair is for the participant’s spouse or significant other. Apparently, they can provide moral support (and even take their clothes off), but they cannot directly lend a hand, so to speak.

How weird is that? Not enough, apparently, because I have heard various sperm-related horror stories that have occurred during the study.

It would seem that some of the sperm study participants have taken as little as two minutes to produce a sample (which, to me, is quite terrifying considering the cold, antiseptic atmosphere of the room). Conversely, one man was in the Velvet Room for 90 minutes and came out dry. Stage fright, apparently.

At times, participants “miss the cup.” The employees generally do not enjoy that. I wonder if they draw straws to see who gets to deal with the cleanup.

I think the worst horror story I overheard, however, was the one involving a man who said his mother had called him on his cell phone when he was trying to produce a sample. That killed his mood for over a half hour.

So, the lesson learned from this is quite simple: sometimes, we must endure great pains in order to make great progress. Oh, and also: you should always leave your cell phone in the other room when you masturbate in a plastic cup in the name of science.

The Meaning of Life: Submarines and Subtext

So, what exactly is the meaning of life?

When I was considerably less ancient, I relentlessly searched for the answer to that grand question in the pages of the world's most highly revered books (i.e. The Bible, The Tao Te Ching, The Kama Sutra, and even The Yellow Pages). None of them helped, however, because I realize now that you cannot discover the meaning of life in such places.

Instead, you need to delve deeply into the lyrics of rock songs — especially the songs of The Beatles. More especially (is that a phrase?), you should reference the songs written by Ringo Starr, who most people would agree is the smartest man ever to wield a mustache (a list, by the way, which includes Albert Einstein and Tom Selleck).

Perhaps Ringo's most controversial and challenging song is the cleidoic Yellow Submarine.

I shall perform a brief lyrical autopsy upon its key passages:

So we sailed up to the sun
Till we found the sea of green
And we lived beneath the waves
In our Yellow Submarine

Many critics have scoffed at this imagery, vehemently claiming that Ringo is evidently the victim of the world’s worst GPS device as he recounts a whimsical, but nonsensical journey. It appears uncertain whether the narrator is underwater in a green sea beneath the waves, close to the sun, or both places, seemingly impossibly.

Other critics have alluded to this passage as direct proof of Starr’s penchant for copiously ingesting LSD and other psychedelic drugs during the sobriety-deprived 1960s.

Poppycock. Could such a man -- under the influence of hallucinogens -- have grown and trimmed such an aesthetically-pleasing mustache? Could such a man -- and his alleged perpetually drug-addled brain -- deconstruct so many complicated concepts in such a clear, concise and catchy manner? Not bloody likely.



Those simpletons who attack Ringo are ignoring the subtext within the songwriter's existential exploration. It seems obvious to even an infant with no concept of space or time that Ringo is alluding to a state of existence that is omnipresent... in the sun, in the green sea, under the waves, and yes, in the Yellow Submarine, which a blatant metaphor for the purity of light that physically encompasses every soul in the universe.

Indeed, the axiom “We all live in a Yellow Submarine” removes all doubt that every being in existence is eternally inside the parameters of an infinitely-massive vessel capable of submerging through all of space and time, whether we actually see the Yellow Submarine or even acknowledge its presence.

Later in the song, Ringo writes:

And our friends are all on board
Many more of them live next door
And the band begins to play

Notice how he states "our friends are ALL on board" and then proceeds to write that more of them live next door, as well. How can all live on board and yet more also live next door? Indeed, such an event is impossible, at least within the parameters of linear time, which, unfortunately, is how man generally perceives it.

However, time is subject to all points of view in the universe where each individual observer examines it from – as well as when each observer examines it be it the past, present or future. Thus, one observer's interpretation is only a singular diluted fractal detail that helps comprise the shape of Time Entirety, which of course, is alluded to as the music that the band plays on and on.

Thus, we all listen to the symphony of time as we ride in the Yellow Submarine, even if it appears that we are only neighbors to the Grand Vessel. After all, humanity is consistently constricted by its own cognitive failings.

Incidentally, this notion is also nascent in Nowhere Man during the following stanza:

Doesn't have a point of view
Knows not where he's going to
Isn't he a bit like you and me?

This song is believed to be written by the late, great John Lennon, but I believe this was a case where John (as he so often did) consulted Ringo for help with composing lyrics. Ringo's influence is as obvious as it is epiphanous.

Here, the Divine Drummer proliferates the precept that everybody is inherently a nobody who, in the confines of his or her own navigational confusion, is ultimately nowhere to be found.

What does that mean? What indeed, Ringo, what indeed.

The meaning is simple: Everybody is a nobody in their own unique way, and, subsequently, even nobodies can be embodied in the concept that is everybody.

Thus, it also stands to reason that nowhere can indeed be found everywhere, especially in a Yellow Submarine.

Critics of Starr’s seminal philosophical works counter this theorem saying that the opposite is sublimely true, that there is no Yellow Submarine, only the empty meaningless pockets of cold space comprised of random matter particles completely devoid of purpose.

However, Ringo had previously covered this ground himself by noting that if such a truth was exposed, it would mean that we all live outside the Yellow Submarine’s hull, which is merely the aforementioned pocket of nothingness where, of course, only nothing can exist. Ringo brilliantly referred to this plane of non-existence as the shade in the Octopus’s Garden.

However, Ringo also realized that it is a paradox for one to exist in a plane of non-existence, even if we desire it so. And, of course, Ringo desired it so:

I'd like to be
Under the sea
In an Octopus's Garden
In the Shade.

Therefore, Ringo surmised that the meaning of life for us is to faithfully accept our roles as meandering passengers on that almighty celestial submarine. Unfortunately, Ringo secretly longed to leave the vessel and merge with the shade of nothingness that denotes a purposeless existence. So, as you can see, not only is Ringo the most profound mustachioed man to have ever lived, he is also one of the saddest.

To Hell and Back!!! (Part Two)

(See Previous Entry for Part One)

Let's summarize Part One, shall we? I believe Hell is playing Pictionary and recently I had to endure 30 minutes of Hell. Now, you're caught up.

I should mention here, that I did not actually play Pictionary recently. It was actually a knock-off for kids called Cadoo.

It involves other things to do than just draw, yet my wife and I play a "draw every turn" version with my young nephew to torture me. He is exceptionally cute and knows he is and he uses his cuteness to ask me ever so politely and kindly to play even though he knows I'd rather be playing kissing tag with jellyfish in the middle of the Pacific ocean.

So, when it became my turn and I had to draw something that could be found “under my bed” I was none-too-pleased.

My attempt at drawing a cat looked like something that vaguely resembled a bat-faced creature with no legs and a huge, fat snake-like tail. It also had wings for eyes and a nose that only could be described as woefully inaccurate.

I would reproduce it here but I accidentally spilled two glasses of ice tea on it, as well as a third because the first two did not adequately do the trick.

My nephew, as adorable as space is infinite and easily half as evil, seemed to really enjoy watching me squirm. He laughed at my drawing for approximately 14 hours. This is probably why he relishes playing the game so damn much.

When it came time for his turn to draw I will reference the picture at the top of this blog. He had to draw an animal he would not want in his bed with him. Any guesses?

My wife and I tried many guesses ourselves, but ran out of time. Turns out, he drew a rat. (Look again, you'll see it.)

Now, before you think I’m being mean here, I don’t say this with that purpose in mind. I simply had no idea what scared the kid. No. Scratch that. I know what scares that kid. Everything. It was just too hard to narrow down from a limitless number of choices.

I felt kind of bad not being able to guess the answer because I could see his frustration... that same frustration I’ve known all of my life.

At least he’s only in first grade. He can still develop drawing skills, and you know, even if he doesn’t he can already draw me under the table. At least the wheel-like appendages of the rat in his picture are in proportion. On my best day, I couldn't even manage that much.

So, if you think the figure at the top of this entry is hard to identify, then you should know that what I had drawn was ten times worse and much more mock-worthy. If you were to, say, post in on a refrigerator, those who passed by it would shriek in absolute terror: What is wrong with that poor, deranged child! Is he... is he from Hell?

No, no I am not. I just visit there every time I attempt to draw.

To Hell and Back!!! (Part One)

Most people probably envision Hell as a deep and vast underground cavern full of thick smoke and scorching flames... and, of course, an infinite number of nightmarish demons and tortured souls. I’m guessing there’s a lot of screaming in this scenario, too.

I don’t buy that. Heaven is not a bunch of clouds and harps and winged seraphs. Hell is not a bunch of fire and brimstone and screaming monstrosities. Those are just mythological constructs... simple and even unimaginative images that have been frequently used throughout history by the feckless predominant collective cultures of this infernal, red-headed stepchild of a world.

Yes, I’m feeling quite optimistic today.

Perhaps it is because I experienced a glimpse of the one true Hell recently and I am still struggling to recover.

You see, Heaven does not really have one face, so to speak. Nor does Hell, in my opinion. Such abstract ideas are influenced by the perception of the individual who experiences them. For you, Heaven may be full of chocolate chip cookies and blatant public nudity. For me, it might be a world where all food is served "Thai hot" and all movies are made in IMAX 3-D.

Then, there is Hell. I admit, burning perpetually while being whipped by deranged demons is a decent Underworld to imagine. It sounds quite painful and hopeless, which is precisely the point. But, for me, Hell is much worse than that. After all, I recently journeyed there (or a watered-down version of it) for about 30 minutes and escaped back to reality with my life and sanity intact, but only barely.

What is Hell for me? Quite simply, Hell is playing Pictionary.

The sad thing about that previous sentence is that I genuinely meant it. Drawing ability is something that I have always admired, but am utterly perplexed how it all works. I consistently failed handwriting in school (which is not really drawing talent, and yet, I’m so bad with pencil and paper that I cannot even write words legibly).

Years later, I took Art and my self-confidence pulled out a gun and shot itself 13 times.

I cannot draw a circle. I cannot draw a square. My stick figures look evil... and fuzzy... and disturbingly out of proportion. I truly suck at drawing in a way that nobody has managed to equal throughout the entire course of recorded time. (I even envy those rudimentary stick drawings on caves etched with ashen sticks.)

So, naturally, everybody I know seems to want to play Pictionary whenever I am around. I usually get pressured into playing, and then, by the end of the night, everybody usually regrets that persuasive effort.

You might think I’m being silly, but let me use an appropriate metaphor.

Picture, if you will, sticking your hand into a running blender (perhaps on the setting of maximum blend). Don’t take it out. Keep it there for 30 minutes (or however long it takes to play Pictionary). While this is going on, imagine that someone has lit your crotch on fire. You can’t put it out, of course. Then, cover your entire body with Super Glue. Immediately after that, pour a bucket of cranky tarantulas all over your body so they can get caught in the glue and try to bite their way out of it.

Does that sound like fun to you? For me, that sounds a little bit hellish. If I were given the choice of playing Pictionary or participating in the tortures of the previous paragraph, I would probably flip a coin.

In this instance, I lost the coin toss and almost lost my mind completely.

To Be Continued Tomorrow...

Top 10 Worst Names Celebrities Have Given Their Children

According to statistics tabulated by the National Youth Violence Prevention Resource Center (www.safeyouth.org), almost 30% of the youth in the United States (over 5.7 million) bully others, end up becoming the target of a bully's wrath, or both.

When students between the ages of six and ten were polled in a national survey, it was revealed that 13% admitted to bullying others and 11% were bullied by others. On top of that, 6% claimed to be on both sides of the bullying coin.

Now, I realize that there are many factors for why people bully others. I myself was tortured daily by two older brothers simply because I was much smarter, better looking and just plain more awesome than they could ever hope to be.

But, there is one thing that can be done at birth to help shield children from the potential wrath of future bullies. Give your child a name that does not rhyme with a profane word, for example. I can attest that “Chris” rhymes with “piss” (as well as "clitoris") so I heard some pretty colorful phrases while growing up.

Note: you probably should also stray away from names that double as profane and/or dubious words, such as: Dick, Peter, John Thomas, Willy, Wang, Captain Penishead, etc.

I realize that eliminates a lot of common names, but truth be told, such monikers are hardly the biggest attraction for schoolyard bullies. Common names like “Dick” and “Peter” won’t make you stand out nearly as much as a highly unusual name will.

And, now we come to the point of my blog today (finally!).

Why do so many celebrities give their children names that will one day make them the target of anybody on the playground with a size ten or larger shoe and/or a 75 or less IQ?

I could provide dozens of examples, but instead, will opt to go for a Top Ten list format.


The Top Ten Worst Names Celebrities Have Given Their Children:


10) Apple (Child of Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin of Coldplay)

Bonus Bad Joke: Let's hope Apple falls far from the family tree when she names her own children some day.


9) Sage Moonblood (Child of Sylvester Stallone)


8) Memphis Eve (Child of U2 frontman Bono who clearly was teased for his own name growing up.)


7) Tu (This name isn’t so bad until you realize the child’s last name is Morrow. The father is actor Rob Morrow.)

On the bright side, at least the child will likely think that the people in the musical Annie are singing directly to her.


6) Audio Science (Child of actress Shannyn Sossamon.)


5) Jermajesty (Child of Jermaine Jackson, brother of Michael.)

Jerkidding me, right?


4) Pilot Inspektor (Child of Jason Lee. I believe it has something to do with a song lyric from a band named Grandaddy or opium... copious amounts of opium.)


3) Moxie Crimefighter (Child of comedian/magician Penn Jillete -- part of the duo Penn and Teller.)

I will admit that it's better than Wussy Supervillain, but only barely.


2) Kal-El (Child of Nic Cage, a big fan of Superman, hence Superman’s Kryptonian name.)

Thank goodness his Kryptonian name wasn't something really unusual like Mxyzptlk or Chunky Bits of Dog Food... Now with Gravy.

And finally...


1) Moon Unit, Dweezil, Ahmet and Diva the Muffin Man (All offspring of musician Frank Zappa who clearly deserves a Lifetime Achievement Award for this category.)


Incidentally, today’s blog is sponsored by:

www.FutureBullyVictimsoftheWorldUnite.com.

Reader Mail #3

There continues to be a massive influx of electronic mail from Passing Thoughts readers of late. Just yesterday alone I received 271 comments, four of which were not from StalkingYouUntilYouBleed.

Receiving electronic ovations from all corners of the Earth is nice, to be sure, but some people go on a little too much. For example:

Dear Scrotum Face,

A friend of mine recently requested that I try reading your blog since he believed it was the best thing since waxed dental floss. So, I clicked on the link.

Words cannot describe how it made me feel, but alas, I shall try.

As I read each sentence, I felt as if my very eyes were repeatedly raped by your worthless, pointless, damnable words.

Your illiterate ramblings forced me to unleash a tidal wave of tears as I found myself thinking that I would prefer to have a pit bull use my penis as a chew toy than to endure one more insipid observation from your pitiful unimaginative imitation of a mind.

Perhaps I could give you two words of advice: Please die.

And, hopefully, you will follow my advice as soon as humanly possible.

Irritatingly,

Donnie Darko


Here is another interesting letter I received:


Dear Dr. Montepenny,

Yesterday my shadow followed me around outside for most of the day. It simply would not leave me alone, even when I ran across the freeway during the morning rush hour screaming “Intacto! Intacto!”

At one point, I saw a screeching diesel tire run over the shadow, but the ungodly creature continued its relentless pursuit of me. Finally, around sunset, it grew tired and I managed to give it the slip. Still, I worry that it will be waiting outside for me once again tomorrow.

So, my question is: who would win in a fight between Superman and Batman?

Sincerely,

hookerbytrade



Dear Ms. Hooker,

I am not actually a doctor, but I do appreciate when people address me thusly. Your e-mail distressed me greatly for two reason: 1) not once did you compliment me; and 2) your question was utterly absurd.

Clearly, Superman would pummel Batman before he could even blink... even if Batman held every tactical advantage and contained several hundreds of pounds of kryptonite on his person, Superman would simply fly out of reach of the kryptonite’s devastating effects. Then, he would pick up a building and drop it on the Caped Crusader, whose utility belt does not come equipped with a device that can catch a building.

Or, Superman could simply sneeze and Batman's head would instantly blow off. Either way, the fight would last approximately 2.4 seconds.

Sincerely,

Dr. Montepenny

I'm Blogging Here! I'm Blogging Here!

Now that I have been blogging for a while, my readership has expanded into the millions.

Unfortunately, these days I find myself accosted on the street often by my legion of fans who bombard me with questions like: Why are you so obsessed with zombies? Did you get the doll I sent you that was made of human hair and crafted lovingly in your likeness? And, last but not least: What exactly is the purpose of your blog?

All are good questions, to be sure.

I will ignore them like I usually do... except for the last one. What is the purpose of this blog? Well, that should be obvious. There is none. It's utterly pointless.

When you break it all down, I have an exceptionally boring life that really isn’t worth reading about. That doesn't stop me from blogging, however. After all, millions of other brain-damaged bloggers have already littered the Super Information Highway with deep declarations such as “The new Kevin Smith film sucks ass!” or poignant questions like “Is it coincidence that the alphabet is arranged in alphabetical order?”

I may never achieve such grandiose verbosity, but I promise to help cure your insomnia with my inane and trivial ramblings.

Speaking of trivia (wow, what a forced segue!) the above picture is from the cinematic classic Midnight Cowboy, the first (and only) X-rated movie to ever win the Best Picture Oscar from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.

Apparently, they never saw Big Trouble in Little Vagina or Edward Penishands, two vastly overlooked classics of cinema.

Later on, Midnight Cowboy was downgraded to “R” status, but the filmmakers were allowed to keep the golden trophy anyway. That’s just wrong on all levels.

Anyway, I included the above picture because of Ratso’s (played by Dustin Hoffman) popular quote: “I’m walking here! I’m walking here!”

I know. I know. Do you see what I did with the juxtaposition of words there in my blogline (is that a word?)? Now, you are saying: “Ha, ha, you are only too clever for words!”

Truly I am, but that is beside the point.

A little time has passed a bit since I added that picture and it has occurred to me that: 1) I didn’t really like the movie that much (I watched it hoping it would be a night western); 2) having that picture at the top of my blog inadvertently gives the whole page a glaringly gay tone, not that there is anything wrong with that; 3) the term “my blog” sounds terribly wrong; 4) Dustin Hoffman must be about as tall as a Smurf; and 5) Jon Voight apparently frequented a haberdashery that lacked mirrors sometime back in the late 1960s. Looking at him in that outfit makes it almost impossible to imagine that he’d be fathering über-sexpot Lara Croft in only a handful of years.

It’s a pretty incredible world when you think about it.

Hmmm. Now I am wondering if straight people use words like “haberdashery?"

Oh, and for the record, Smurfs are approximately three apples tall, whatever the Hell that means. Also, they live in mushrooms and boast a 99% male population. Between the cowboy gigolo picture, Smurf reference and the whole “haberdashery” faux pas (and, now, subsequently, the usage of faux pas), I’m seriously questioning my own sexual identity.




Kiss-My-Ass Smurf says: "See ya!"

Lessson Learned: Do Not Anger the Baseball Gods

So, last night I learned a valuable lesson: Don't #@$! with the Baseball Gods.

Any superstitious soul knows it's unwise to talk about a perfect game or a no-hitter with the pitcher while it is actually happening. Nothing angers the Deities of the Diamond like assuming that your favorite player or team has earned their favor and is currently being elevated to divine status as a result.

Case in point: my blog yesterday boasted how well the Diamondbacks had played in my presence this season. It was ample fodder for the Mighty Ones to prove a point to me. True, they may have favored me in the past, but my simple mention of that fact was enough to incite them to put me back in my proper place.

The same Diamondbacks who had not given up any earned runs in the full three games I watched live this year gave up six total runs (only half were earned) and were beaten in every aspect of the game last night... handily.

It didn't start off that way, though. Arizona starting pitcher Jon Garland pitched an impressive first three innings, giving up only one walk and no hits to the first ten batters. I found myself wondering if the magic could happen one more time.

Meanwhile, the D-Backs managed to draw walks and hits like crazy. They had two baserunners on in the first, three in the second and two in the third.

Unfortunately, they just couldn't manage to score any runs in those situations. At one point, they had the Phillies' starter Jamie Moyer on the ropes. He faced the worst situation a pitcher can face: bases loaded with no outs. He got out of it without giving up a single run. Strikeout. Double play. Groan.

Then, the momentum changed in a flash. Moyer found his control again and Ryan Howard found the centerfield fence by blistering a monster shot that gave the Phillies a 2 to 0 lead. Prior to that hit, I knew the D-Backs had blown the game already. They had every advantage working for them early and didn't... well, take advantage of it.

Naturally, they soon unraveled after that. They committed two sloppy errors. Second baseman Ryan Roberts also bobbled a potential double-play ball that would have ended an inning, but instead, allowed a run to score on the play.

The D-Backs also stranded eleven baserunners altogether. The Phillies were up 6 to 0 before Arizona scored a pair of meaningless runs in the bottom of the eighth. However, the outcome of the game was never in question.

The D-Backs outhit the Phils 9 to 6, but the Liberty Bell Bombers played smarter baseball. They are the champions and they showed why last night. They also proved to me that it is much wiser to keep your mouth shut if you actually think the Baseball Gods are showing you any kindness at all.

Still, it was a fun night at the air-conditioned ballpark. Next time I will simply wait until AFTER THE GAME to discuss the divine actions of the Baseball Gods rather than risk their wrath once again. After all, their vengeance hits harder than Ryan Howard's bat, and believe me, that is saying a lot.

The Ultimate Test for the Baseball Gods

Last month, I wrote a two-part blog called "A Dissertation on the Deities of the Diamond" about how fans tend to believe that they somehow control the fate of their favorite ballclub through their superstitious actions.

I realize how silly it is for a grown person to believe that wearing a baseball cap backwards will make a .188 hitter come up big with a rally-tying single in the bottom of the ninth, but this is the society we live in.

Then again, sometimes the numbers don't lie. Some fans actually could make a statistical argument that backs up such wild claims. Like me.

I have attended three home games this season of the struggling Arizona Diamondbacks, a team that trails the Los Angeles Dodgers by almost 20 games with an unimpressive 43-56 record.

Yet, during the three games I attended the Diamondbacks were 3-0, outscoring the Rockies 2 to 0, the Cubs 10 to 0 and the Giants 2 to 1. A team that has struggled with pitching and hitting mightily all throughout the year just so happens to boast a 14 to 1 scoring margin in the three games I have attended.

Coincidence? Not bloody likely.

Consider this fact. The Diamondbacks have only pitched eight shutouts all year long (and five at home) and I was there for two of them. During the third game I attended, the Diamondbacks were up 2 to 0 with two outs and two strikes in the ninth inning when I foolishly uttered aloud: “I can’t believe they’ve pitched 26 straight scoreless innings for me and are about to finish number 27! What are the freakin' odds of that?”

The Giants ended up scoring a run on a wild pitch as the Baseball Gods smote me mightily.

Still, the team has a cumulative ERA of 4.41, but when I watch them at Chase Field live they have an ERA of 0.00 in 27 innings (the one run the Giants did score was unearned).

Considering how bad the D-Backs have been, it is an extremely odd coincidence that they pitch like the Arizona Cy Youngs whenever I'm there.

Of course, every fan has told me that I should attend every game, but I know that this will enrage the Baseball Gods if I try to take advantage of their divine courtesy. Thus, I haven't been to a game since mid-June. However, I decided it had been long enough so I will be there tonight when the team hosts the Philadelphia Phillies.

Now, whether or not the Baseball Gods favor me will be put to the ultimate test. After all, the D-Backs have Garland on the mound (his ERA is 4.41!) and the Phillies have the best offense in the National League. The team has hit 138 homes runs and has scored 527 runs (leading the National League in both categories).

If the D-Backs somehow miraculously prevail AND keep the Phillies from scoring, then I will officially believe that I am favored by the Baseball Gods.

However, I have more than my share of doubts.

The Phillies have been extremely hot lately, winning 17 of 20 games and haven't lost a series since the start of the month. They have one of the most explosive offenses in the league. There is no way the D-Backs stand a chance, right?

Well, we'll find out tonight.

Zombie Mania 2! Haiku? Bless You!

A little while back, I noted how many things in the world could be transformed into sheer awesomeness simply by adding a “zombie” element to them.

While perusing the aisles of a bookstore recently, I found further proof of this Nobel Prize-deserving theory.

Zombie haiku poetry.

Really, do I need to say anything else?

Everybody remembers haikus, right? We learned about them in 6th grade or so when our English teacher said they consisted of three simple lines with the following syllable scheme:

first line = 5 syllables;
second line = 7 syllables;
third line = 5 syllables.

I remember we were all required to write one before the end of the class. I can’t recall mine verbatim, but this would be pretty darn close:

When will the bell ring?
Will English class ever end?
No, no it will not.

Surprisingly, I did not win the Pulitzer that year.

But, enough about haikus... let's get to the zombie aspect of today's topic. I believe the undead are too often victims of discrimination. Seriously. How many people really feel comfortable around zombies? Is that even the right term, or is that word biased? I think the proper term is undead-Americans.

Truth be told, I wouldn’t want my nephew or niece to marry a corpse, even a mobile one. It would only be a matter of time before they were infected with the zombie virus and become one themselves. There, I admitted it. Clearly, I’m a racist, or a bigot, or an alivist (probably the most accurate term).

Yet, despite my disgust, I still believe zombies have rights, not the least of which is to be published. In this case, a guy named Ryan Mecum (which rhymes with lion cecum) wrote a vivid first-hand account of the undead experience called, appropriately enough, Zombie Haiku. It is quite chilling to read, and very educational.

Here is a sample of his zombie haiku poetry:

You are so lucky
that I do not remember
how to use door knobs.

Good stuff, though it does play into the whole stereotype of the undead being brainless. True, many zombies are notoriously stupid and are even known to eat their own limbs, for example. That is a direct result of their unholy, unquenchable hunger. Zombies simply can’t stop eating the living until... well, they are living no more. (Only sexy gun-toting supermodels-turned-actresses seem to be exempt from this phenomenon.)

I find it interesting that a “brainless” creature would crave brains so much, and yet, the only way to kill (or re-kill) a zombie is to destroy its brains. So, indeed, they have brains, or they wouldn’t be staggering around ever-so-slowly looking for more brains.

My own personal distrust and fear of zombies stems largely from their pale, maggot-infested complexion and their rotting, mangled limbs. (I'm also not a big fan of the "eye dangling from the socket like a cat toy" look, either.)

I know it’s wrong, but I at least am trying to make inroads on the matter. Still, it's satisfying to know that adding a touch of zombie flavor to things certainly makes them seem freshly alive again. Oh, the zombie irony.

With that thought, I will leave you with one more example of Mecum’s zombie haiku poetry:

Biting into heads
is much harder than it looks.
The skull is feisty.

Words to live by.

For more information on this phenomenon, visit http://www.zombiehaiku.com.

Best Tweets of the Day -- July 7, 2009

It was an interesting day in Twitterville as tons of Twitters tweeted to and fro, many (oh, about 4 billion) chimed in with their thoughts on the Michael Jackson tribute at the Staples Center in Los Angeles.

Here are some of the more memorable Tweets of the Day for July 7, 2009:

SisterHazelBand
Watching MJ's Funeral... His daughter just spoke about how much she loved her Dad and what a wonderful father he was to them.. VERY HEAVY!

sportsguy33 (a.k.a. Bill Simmons, the sportswriter)
Really sad ending. Glad I watched that ceremony and it's worth watching if you missed it. He certainly was one of a kind.

badbanana
Michael’s casket is being carried off stage by the Muppets while the Globetrotters sing “Gone Too Soon”. Beautiful.

Kevin Smith did not discuss the Michael Jackson tribute, but he did manage to make his tweets sounds unflinchingly filthy.

ThatKevinSmith
Filthy oral! Got a back molar pulled. Old filling allows crud beneath, tooth decay ensues. Lady Dentist gassing me and doing the yank-yank.

And last but not least, two of my favorites:

aedison
I'm so good at pretending. Like when I pretended I was diabetic. And then pretended the insulin was heroin. And then pretended to pass out.

Jeremy Piven

Drinking coffee before doing yoga is like trying to head butt the wind, I made a bad decision...

Reader Mail #2

It seems that my recent posting of reader mail (imaginatively titled Reader Mail #1) attracted (ironically enough) even more reader mail. Yet again, it seems that my vast and infinite readership has nothing but kind words for me and I have to say, I am simply gushing from all of the kudos.


Dear Supreme Idiot,

I recently read your so-called blog entitled “Reader Mail #1” and felt compelled to say that you are an obnoxious, offensive knuckle-dragger with an IQ less than most roadkill. I would insult you more, but you obviously suffer from copious amounts of brain damage and my words would inevitably be lost on your inert intellect.

BTFW, I have started an online petition to eradicate your blog permanently from cyber space. In the meantime, why don’t you go play in traffic, you impotent mound of bird botulism.

Clearly, you (or one of your many, many personalities) made the entire letter up and the fact that you chose a picture of Pee Wee Herman as your representation of Satan is unimaginative, cruel and immensely immature.

Anybody with half a brain (which excludes you and everyone you know, undoubtedly), knows that Satan really looks like this (see attached picture below).


Sincerely,

Axel Rose (not the singer, but the market analyst)

Reader Mail #1

It has been a hectic week for me as my Passing Thoughts blog is becoming quite the time-consumer. True, writing the actual blogs does not take much time as I put no effort into them whatsoever and they are designed to be wordy, interminably slow and hackneyed.

At any rate, there's an old analogy I am quite fond of that goes like this: An infinite number of monkeys typing on an infinite number of typewriters for an infinite amount of time will eventually produce all the works of Shakespeare.

Unfortunately, my budget is considerably threadbare. I can only hire one monkey and, quite frankly, he's missing a few fingers and most of his brain so you are getting only about .002% Shakespeare. That's the best I can do. Frankly, you are quite lucky NOT TO BE reading something along the lines of "8rzejguk9i" right now.

Still, it seems that the writings on this blog have somehow generated millions and millions of comments from readers. So, instead of coming up with something new or original to write about, I'm giving the monkey the day off and will simply post some reader feedback. I am truly amazed at how positive it has been.


Dear Hopeless Heathen,

I recently read your blog about cursing (titled: WTF?!? The Speculated History of Cussing) and I must say I was shocked, mortified and spiritually disemboweled by your blatant acts of heinous sin. (I mean, really, blaming Adam for the advent of profanity!) Do you even possess a soul, you vacuous kibble-eating monstrosity of DNA.

On behalf of those who are going to Heaven, I’d just like to say that I hope you enjoy your reserved box seats in Hell, you brainless heap of regurgitated spam jelly.

Sincerely (Hoping You Rot In the Flames of Eternal Damnation),

I. M. Adeup

P.S. You truly are a testament to the dire need of birth control.

P.S.S. I took the liberty of attaching a picture of Satan himself (below) so you can begin having nightmares of him long before you are forced to be his bitch-maiden throughout Eternity.

I Am New Orleans

Its initials may spell “NO” but its attitude continues to be undeniably “YES.”

I just returned from my second trip to New Orleans in six months and I continue to be impressed with the city’s resilient spirit.

My first visit to the Big Easy was in 2001. My impressions could be summed up with one word: Daaaammmn.

Strolling along Bourbon Street at night, I was hypnotized by the rhapsodic music that emanated from every open door. My eyes darted back and forth as blissfully drunk pedestrians stumbled in serpentine fashion and women everywhere lifted up their shirts in an unprecedented display of spontaneous public nudity (prompted only by the enticement of cheap and colorful plastic beads, no less).

I had simply assumed that New Orleans was only that wild and crazy during Mardi Gras, but clearly, partying is a full-time, year-round profession for those carefree Creoles.

Of course, when I went there in 2001, the streets were much more crowded than they were in 2008 and 2009. However, the numbers seem to be climbing back up again.

It's really amazing how much the community has bounced back from Hurricane Katrina. That is probably the reason why it disheartens me so whenever I engage in conversations with various people who think they are experts on the current state of New Orleans even though they haven't even visited there recently.

People are under the false impression that cut-throat murderers lurk everywhere, attacking innocent pedestrians on the street without rhyme or reason. Or, they are convinced the city smells like rotting corpses and all the tourist attractions are closed up and abandoned.

Sure, and the cotton candy clouds have soaked up the Mississippi like giant fluffy pink sponges from beyond our solar system.

I understand that when Katrina steamrolled through New Orleans, there was unspeakable devastation and catastrophic casualties. The death toll reached over 1,400 people and the city’s population was vastly reduced immediately after the disaster. But, it is almost four years later and the Crescent City is as indomitable as it is inspirational.

There are more restaurants in the French Quarter than ever, and they actually wash the streets in the region every day. The locals are overtly hospitable and friendly, as well, as if they are desperately trying to make up for the fallen city image that people seem to doggedly fixate on.

Of course, other areas of the city (which were directly hit) are still recovering and it will take many more years to come. When I recently engaged in a tour past neighborhoods in the Lower 9th Ward, I observed the city at its best and worst simultaneously.

The old destroyed houses evoke an air of despair as soon as you spot them. Many of them are still adorned with the spray-painted symbols on the front where rescue workers in small boats arrived and learned instantly if/when the home had been searched, how many survivors and casualties were recorded, and other details such as if leaking pipes and dead pets were discovered.

Yet, many who still live there refuse to remove the painted information. Instead, it serves as a personal memorial. It's a stark reminder, but also a genuine gesture of respect.

The Lower 9th Ward is particularly interesting because you can see a few of the newly-built Make It Right Foundation houses which are much stronger, safer and more storm-resistant than their historical counterparts. The new additions are also quite ecologically friendly and brightly-colored causing them to stand out completely in the area.

Seeing the old and the new buildings juxtaposed makes you realize how much potential humanity has to overcome the impossible from time to time.

Also in the neighborhood lies an interesting memorial (see picture below) constructed to honor those who lost their lives in the tragedy. They are represented by the empty red chairs. The blue poles denote the different levels of the flood waters during the storm. As for the partially-constructed house, it is a physical representation of the city's ongoing rebuilding efforts.

The message in the window of the incomplete house simply reads: "I AM COMING HOME. I WILL REBUILD. I AM NEW ORLEANS."

Twice the Blogs, Only Half the Calories!

Normally, I try to write extremely long and boring blogs so that my millions of readers will be far more likely to fall asleep while courageously attempting to read them.

However, today's post is not about curing insomnia. It's about shameless plugs. So, I will try to be brief and boring, which I am sure will disappoint a lot of people.

Yesterday I posted a new entry for another blog called "Phillies v. Mets" which is located at http://www.mvpdebate.blogspot.com. There are 13 contributing writers altogether so there will be at least a post a day, sometimes two, hence the abysmally clever headline above.

Don't let the title fool you, however. This new blog is not remotely about the Philadelphia Phillies or the New York Mets. It does not cover baseball in any way, shape or form. It was just a catchy name that just so happened to be available.

Also, that last paragraph was a complete and utter lie.

So, if you feel a need to get your daily fill of the Phillies, please come visit. Mets fans are also welcome provided that they take their meds before posting comments.

Thank you.

WTF?!? (The Speculated History of Cussing)

I’ve been pondering one of life’s most interesting questions lately: When did cussing begin?

If you think about it, the first cuss word could not possibly have been considered a cuss word until a group of people (perhaps some sort of majority) deemed it so.

I suppose the logical choice is Adam. “Did you eat the f#^*@!* apple, Eve? Dammit! Well, you might as well pass that bad boy over to me now.”

Who’s to say he was actually cussing? God? I always assumed profanity was a human invention. Damn that free will to Hell.

Maybe it didn’t happen until many, many years later. Perhaps some fed-up and frustrated soul pointed at somebody’s else’s genitalia one day and screamed: “I have invented an unsavory term for that. I call it #@!%, and you know what? That is precisely what you are. A good-for-nothing #@!%. Go stick your #@!% in the fire, you #@!%-weasel!”

At that moment, everybody else in the area (presumably shocked and mortified beyond belief) all agreed that “#@!%” was profane and that nobody decent would ever use it again, unless they hit their hand with a hammer hard, or were unrighteously cut off in traffic by an intoxicated horse cart operator.

Regardless of what actually happened, somebody else heard the word and didn’t think like the rest of the group. Instead, they immediately began working on a gangster screenplay using it as often as humanly possible.

I suppose I could just simply look up the history of profanity, but it’s so much more fun to recklessly speculate.

Here’s the thing about cussing: Such words only contain power when the listener grants them it. Given, I never grew up being subjected to racial epithets or slurs. The worst thing I heard people say to me in that regard is “cracker” or “honkey,” both of which crack me up.

But, I submit to the jury that I had two older brothers who insulted me intensely, creatively and often. Come to think of it, they might have used racial slurs on me because I am almost positive that they called me every conceivable name in THE BOOK. (Incidentally, I’d like to see this mystery BOOK some day to verify that statement.)

So, of course the words got under my skin from time to time, but that just made me realize that I had the power to verbally fight back with even meaner and more profane language. And, really, isn’t that what matters?

I have to admit I am quite impressed that humanity has such a fine variety of profanity, but most of us prefer to use the same old words as often as possible.

I read somewhere once that the average educated person (whatever that means) uses typically anywhere between 12,000 and 20,000 words (which means George W. Bush knows about 152, including nu-ca-lar). Shakespeare, one of the best English wordsmiths ever, used more than 30,000 in his body of written works.

Anyway, that number might sound impressive to you, but it simply depresses me because, according to the Global Language Monitor (www.languagemonitor.com) there are just over a million English words altogether. That translates to most of us using only 3% of our cultural lexicon. Let me repeat that: 3%!

Basically, we as a society, do not live up to our verbal potential. That’s like making an annual salary of $100,000 but choosing only to spend $3,000 of it. Who can live on that $@%#!

However, whenever we add profanity to our dialog it is akin to sprinkling spice on your cooking confections or glopping on the gooey syrup that coats the ice cream and then magically transforms into a hardened shell of crunchy chocolate.

With that said, I still try to curtail my public cussing whenever possible. It’s kind of like smoking. OK. I get it. You’re addicted. Fine. Puff on the cancer stick that smells like burning corpses all you want — just don’t do it in my face or in the pre-designated “No Smoking” area.

Incidentally, society has unspoken “No Cussing” areas, as well: churches, libraries, grade schools, daycare centers, family-oriented places, sporting events, bars, prisons, etc.

If you know your foul language offends somebody, then you need not go out of your way to make somebody else uncomfortable or miserable.

Unless they legitimately piss you the #%@! off. Then, have a %@!*ing field day.

Sometimes, profanity is absolutely necessary. One of my favorite films of all time is The Big Lebowski, which contains more profanity than you can shake a $#@!ing $#@% at, but it fits the tone of the story and I don't think the movie would work without it. The profanity in that film is truly inspired and never fails to make me appreciate the English language and all of its complex $#@%ing intricacies.

Of course, if profanity offends you, then I can’t imagine you’d enjoy such a poignant film. I can’t imagine why you are reading this drivel before you, either. But I can offer a simple suggestion that might help you cope with our uncouth and obscene society: Just $#@%ing chill out. Don’t take every little $#!@ing thing so $#@!ing seriously.

Or, if that doesn’t work, go to www.nocussing.com. There is actually a bonafide “No Cussing Club” online and its membership (as of now) is over 20,000 strong worldwide and growing.



All I can say to that is $#@% me!

A Dissertation on the Deities of the Diamond #2

Part Two

(See previous blog entry for Part One.)

Just to show you how extremely odd it is that the Diamondbacks kick ass and take names so ferociously whenever I spectate live, consider some of the following harrowing statistics from the team’s first 61 games (or, approximately one-third of the regular season).

There are only two .300 batters on the team. Justin Upton is having a breakout year hitting (.317) and utility player Ryan Roberts is solid with a .313 average, but he has only had 80 at bats. So, it’s highly likely he won’t last the whole season batting at that level. That means one All-Star caliber hitter. One.

Now, let me show you some of the other anemic averages from the team:

Conor Jackson .182
Chris Young .184
Chad Tracy .203
Eric Byrnes .215
Chris Snyder .223

All men have started for the team numerous times this year, incidentally.

On the plus side, Justin Upton and Mark Reynolds are clearing the fences consistently, having hit 12 and 15 home runs respectively. That’s quite impressive, but also inadvertently depressing. That means the pair have hit 27 of the team’s 58 homers. The rest of the entire team has only hit a meager 31. Contrast that to, say, the Philadelphia Phillies who have almost three times that number and you can see that Arizona won't be winning too many games with their bats.

Now, let’s discuss the pitching side of the equation. Dan Haren has been the main man this year, throwing for 85 innings over 12 games with an astounding ERA of 2.33! He has 83 strikeouts and only eleven walks. Unfortunately, a lack of run support on the days he starts has lead to a 4-4 record, which is so much less than he deserves.

Unfortunately, the Earned Run Averages just climb higher and higher as you scrutinize the rest of the team. Brandon Webb boasts the worst at 21.60! In his defense, he played injured early on and is still recovering. Not too far above him are Tom Gordon and Bobby Korecky, each with a whopping 13.50!

Of course, I realize every team has one or two bad apples with horrendous ERAs early in the year, but consider that the team has eight additional pitchers with an ERA over 5.0 and you can start understanding why Arizona is not winning too many games on the mound, either. They should feel fortunate to be winning 43% of the time.

Naturally, that means that 57% of the time, the D-Backs lose. Unfortunately, they are prone to losing by a massive margin. The team has given up five or more runs 30 times this year (out of 61 games). That’s almost exactly half the time! Not only does the team seem allergic to scoring runs, they appear philosophically opposed to preventing the other team from scoring often.

Yet, when I watch the Diamondbacks live, they have outscored their opponents 14 to 1 in three games!

More importantly, during the first 26 2/3 (of 27 innings) of those games, the visitors scored zilch. It wasn’t until the Giants had two outs and two strikes in the ninth that a player scored from third thanks to Chad Qualls’ wild pitch. So, the run WASN’T EVEN EARNED!

On top of that, it’s my own damn fault because I kept saying “I can’t believe they’ve pitched 26 straight scoreless innings for me and are about to finish number 27! What are the freakin' odds of that?”

The Baseball Gods overheard this and smote me heartily.

Despite my momentary lapse of reason, let’s break down the facts. Three games. No earned runs. Three wins. Inexplicably, they have played like a veritable Diamond Dynasty whenever I am in the stands.

One last note: I have even watched three different pitchers with a combined W-L record of 9-15 during those games. And, that record would drop to 6-15 if you didn’t count the three victories that occurred in my presence.

It is absolutely mind-boggling that the D-Backs can play so much above their potential when I just so happen to be there. How can I not accept this as irrefutable proof that the Baseball Gods exist? How can I not whole-heartedly believe that I completely control the destiny of the Arizona Diamondbacks (but only about once a month)?

Hmmmm.

Perhaps I should reconsider buying season tickets to explore this theory further.

Of course, there is always the danger of buying too many carrots (see previous entry). Surely, I would eventually anger the Deities of the Diamond with my greediness and then I'd have to resort to wearing my hat backwards and upside down, which only works when I watch every other pitch and shout "O' Mighty Baseball Gods Be Praised!" in-between.

A Dissertation on the Deities of the Diamond #1

Part One

I once interviewed a man who played AAA minor league baseball. He relayed to me the following story that he swore was 100% true. However, first I would like to warn anybody who suffers from lachanophobia (the fear of vegetables) to skip the next five paragraphs as you will possibly find the content of them to be absolutely terrifying.

A while back, when this gentleman played under the guidance of legendary manager Earl Weaver, he found himself mired in a state of stagnation inside the batter's box. So, before a game in Elmira, NY, the slumping slugger decided to head to the grocery store and buy his usual purchase of tobacco. Then, he abruptly changed his routine by buying a carrot, as well. He reasoned that carrots are purportedly good for eyesight, so eating one could not hurt him at that point.

This pleased the Mighty Gods of Baseball as he was rewarded with a base hit later that afternoon. The next day he decided to buy tobacco and two more carrots. Naturally, he was rewarded with two hits that night.

Like any logical person would, he repeated the process again but bought three carrots. Of course, he got three hits that night. Then he really pushed the envelope and bought four carrots the next day. Not surprisingly, he tallied another four hits.

Unfortunately, he grew too greedy at that point and opted to buy five carrots. This displeased the fickle Gods of Baseball greatly who decreed that he would go 0 for 4 that evening.

To this day, the man is wholly convinced that he pushed his luck a little too far. (At least he still enjoys eating carrots on a daily basis.)

The notion that his superstitious behavior could influence his performance in the batter's box is absolutely ridiculous. After all, any baseball fan knows that the players have no control over the outcome of a game. Instead, the fans do.

Tell me if this situation sounds a tad bit familiar. You're watching a game and the phone rings. You leave the room to answer it and your team suddenly scores a run to take a lead. Conclusion: they scored because I wasn’t watching during that play.

Or, you're watching a game with your favorite pitcher on the mound and he’s gone seven and two-thirds inning without giving up a hit. You say out loud: “I can’t believe he’s going for a no-hitter.” On the next pitch, the opponents’ .214-hitting shortstop (who has been relegated permanently to the eighth spot in the lineup) bloops a single up the middle. Deflated, you slump back in the chair, cursing your judgment to dare utter the words “no hitter” causing the Gods of Baseball to inevitably extract their swift brand of vengeance.

And they always do! The Omnipotent Ones have no mercy when it comes to fans, except for those who root for the Yankees. Even the Baseball Gods are a little afraid of George Steinbrenner.

Now, let me play Devil's Advocate for a moment. I understand there are people out there in the world, armed with psychology degrees, who claim that fans invent the idea that their actions can control a game and to counter the helplessness and frustration that accompanies being a bystander.

You feel like a fly caught in a spider's web as you watch your team slowly unravel in the bottom of the ninth. First, your team's closer gives up a walk. Then, a single. Then, another damn single. Now, the other team is looking at bases loaded with no outs and your team is only up by one run.

You can’t coach the team. You can’t bat or field for them. All you can do is perform a desperate superstitious ritual that you hope will parlay the favor of these so-called Deities of the Diamond back to your team’s side.

Sometimes that means wearing your baseball hat backwards, or upside down, or my favorite: upside down and backwards. Sometimes it means not watching a certain play; other times it means not leaving the room during a play no matter how full your bladder feels and how at-risk you are for developing a urinary tract infection.

Sometimes the Almighty Spirits can be influenced by a fan yelling as loud as humanly possible, even if it deafens small children nearby, or the Divine Ones may prefer that you remain silent so as to not jinx a special game.

Admittedly, the notion seems just a tiny bit crazy, and yet, almost every avid fan believes it at one time or another.

Case in point: I attended an Arizona Diamondbacks’ game on Thursday (June 11) and even someone as stunningly intelligent and mentally stable as I started to question the notion.

First, let me point out that the team possesses a 26-35 record as of this writing. I am completely cognizant of the fact that there are only two worse teams in MLB this year: the Kansas City Royals and the Washington Nationals. That’s lofty company, to be sure.

However, whenever I have watched the Diamondbacks live in their Phoenix stadium this year, they have been virtual maestros of the mound, performing almost flawlessly every time. In fact, they are unbeatable when I am in the house.

Of course, I’ve only been to three games, but take a look at the following results:

Diamondbacks 2 Rockies 0
Diamondbacks 10 Cubs 0
Diamondbacks 2 Giants 1*

(*It should have been zero, but I'll explain how I blew that from happening later.)

I know... I KNOW the thought that I possess strange super powers to help spur my favorite ballclub to inexplicable victory is completely irrational. I know this.

Yet, as I watched the game, a feeling nagged at me: it was completely against the odds that a team THAT bad could play SO good in my presence. Against my better judgment, I started to believe in the existence of the Gods of Baseball... again.

Then, my mind cleverly deduced exactly why: It’s all science’s fault. You see, I had remembered something I studied back in college.

In experimental research, the term observer effect (also called the Hawthorne effect) refers to changes that the act of observing will make on the phenomenon being observed.

Hmmmm.

I had arrived at Thursday’s game simply hoping to go 3 and 0 at the ballpark for the year and nothing else. I wasn’t trying to appease the Baseball Gods. Heck, I even joked that the Diamondback players felt a need to impress me every time I showed up. But, as each “zero” popped up on the scoreboard after the visiting team batted unsuccessfully, I realized that no opposing ballclub had scored a run in my presence for almost three full games.

The odds of such a thing happening are so remote that you are more likely to find Bigfoot and the Abominable Snowman doing the Macarena on Wrigley Field as the overhead clouds turn magically into pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars and green clovers.

So, as the top of the ninth inning approached the other day, I posed the question to myself: Could I actually be Arizona’s lucky charm?

TO BE CONTINUED...

(Part Two will be posted tomorrow.)