Archive for the ‘Not Sports’ Category

As you all know, there have been an inordinate number of notable (and bizarre) deaths in the last few weeks.  In keeping with the recently popular death tributes here at SoD, I wanted to celebrate a death that some of us remember quite fondly.  The death of disco.  It was thirty years ago last Sunday that disco died at a Chicago White Sox game in center field of Comiskey Park.  The ensuing riot caused the  White Sox to forfeit the second half of the day’s doubleheader.  It remains the last American League game to be forfeited.

Pay particular attention to the local Chicago news guy and his interview of disco murderer, DJ Steve Dahl.  (Between 3:14 and 4:00 on the clip below)



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It has not been an easy couple of months for celebrities – they are pushing the “comes in threes” mystique into several mutiples at this point.  But if you felt bad for Farrah not getting her share of the limelight due to MJ’s unfortunate (timely?) demise, shed a quick tear for my boy Waldo.

Unlike Lord Vigo, Waldo Did Not Prophesy of His Return Just Before His Head Died

Unlike Lord Vigo, Waldo Did Not Prophesy of His Return Just Before His Head Died

Ralph Waldo McBurney, 106, died July 8, 2009, of natural causes.  In 2006, he was widely recognized as America’s Oldest Worker due to his “spry, agile” commitment to his craft as a beekeeper in pitiful Quinter, Kansas.  He wrote an autobiography about his first century on Earth in 2004 (I haven’t read it but since this guy spent his life in Kansas, it probably does not quite equal the literary value of the works of the other Ralph Waldo). 

In a country where being rich makes you famous and being old makes you a hero, Ralph Waldo McBurney was a hero.  Surely he’s busy filling that honey pot in heaven.  Oh, bother!

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Every Friday we designate this weekend’s honorary drinker.  You know, like a parade marshal.  Except cooler.

After last week’s holiday hiatus, we return with this week’s honorary drinker:  Eric Stratton.  Some people are Bluto guys.  Others are Neidermeyer guys.  A few people are even pants-less Donald Sutherland guys.  Me, I’ve always been an Otter guy.  Go forth and remember, when things get bad, it just means it’s time for a road trip.

Theres always time for a nightcap at Otters.

There's always time for a nightcap at Otter's.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be brief.  The issue here is not whether we broke a few rules, or took a few liberties with our female party guests – we did.  But you can’t hold a whole fraternity responsible for the behavior of a few, sick twisted individuals. For if you do, then shouldn’t we blame the whole fraternity system?  And if the whole fraternity system is guilty, then isn’t this an indictment of our educational institutions in general?  I put it to you, Greg – isn’t this an indictment of our entire American society?  Well, you can do whatever you want to us, but we’re not going to sit here and listen to you badmouth the United States of America.”  – Eric “Otter” Stratton

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As you have probably heard, Oscar Mayer is dead at 95.  You may not know that long ago, to protect the innocent, he decided to use a pseudonym for his products — Oscar Meyer.  Not the most creative guy when it comes to pseudonyms but I digress.

Excuse me, arent you Oscar Meyer?  No.  Im Oscar MAYER.  Its a common mistake.  I am actually quite poor and unsuccessful and an unworthy target of your robbery attempt.

"Excuse me, aren't you Oscar Meyer?" For heaven's sake, no. I'm Oscar MAYER. It's a common mistake. I am actually quite poor and unsuccessful, and an unworthy target of your robbery attempt.

Outside of the Mayer/Meyer thing, I have found that the recent report of his death generally evokes one of three reactions:

(1) Oscar Meyer is a real guy?

(2) Oscar Meyer was still alive?

(3) I can’t believe God waited this long to finally found out what they put in bologna.

For the record, I felt all three.  So here’s to you Oscar.  May you ascend to heaven in a hot dog chariot with bologna wings.

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Hark! A throne sits vacant, and not just in the kingdom of Pop.  As you citizens know, there is an important vacancy in our glorious kingdom of Pitchland following the death of the legendary bearded one, Billy Mays.

In keeping with Pitchland’s bylaws, the new King will be selected by out of a group of promising plebs.  The selection ceremony will be conducted in the strictest of confidences by the glorious Pitchland council, including the likes of Bob Villa and Tova.  As it was written in the long, long ago, the new King will be announced for the first time at the coronation ceremony when Merlin Jack LaLanne touches his sceptre upon the shoulders of the chosen one. 


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Urban Youth Dreams of Playing Cricket

Urban Youth Dreams of Playing Cricket

Loyal readers of this blog know that I’m currently in Singapore – which for those of you who don’t know how to type “time in singapore” into google, is 15 hours ahead of Arizona time.  As this is a sports blog and you likely care very little (to none) about my other experiences – and trust me there have been very few – I’ll give you a taste of some of my sports related experiences:

  • I saw cricket batting cages along with a pickup game of cricket.  I’ve not been to the inner cities of LA or NY lately so I’ll just make the assumption that this is the way the United States is since I’ve left.  I welcome your confirmations.
  • In the window of a store there was a Chicago Bulls shirt that was red with gold glitter and had faux autographs from members of the early 90’s Bulls – including Bill Cartwright, Trent Tucker, and John Paxson.  Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen were nowhere to be found.  Somehow I resisted the urge to drop the seven Singapore dollars it would have cost to purchase this luxury item and will likely forever regret not owning what I believe was a female shirt with a fake Trent Tucker autograph.  (more…)

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Every Friday we designate this weekend’s honorary drinker. You know, like a parade marshal. Except cooler.

This week’s honorary drinker is Anthony Bourdain.  America’s crankiest chef and unrepentent smoker, drinker, meat-eater, and appreciater of the truly fine things in life.  Go forth and beware of vegans.

When you're the Chef, there's nothing wrong with a little drinking on the job.

“If some Birkenstock-wearing knucklehead driving around in a SUV and wearing sneakers someone was sold into slavery to make is sniffling about the poor animals, that person is clearly never going to experience the world.” — Anthony Bourdain

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