Let me ask you a question:
Do you think the recipe for ketchup should be changed?
Ketchup. It's a condiment. Made from tomatoes. Used for fries and another fatty fried-potato concoctions.
Ketchup, according to my good friends at Wikipedia, can trace its roots back to 1801, when it was made from tomatoes, walnuts and mushrooms. The modern version you've come to know and love came about around 1913.
My point is: Ketchup as we know it has been around for 96 years. It hasn't been changed because it doesn't need to be changed. It's ketchup!! It's perfect in its current form. And if you don't like ketchup, there's still no point in changing it because whatever it was changed to, you wouldn't eat it anyway!!
Here are some other things that they got right the first time:
Gum.
Baseball.
Paper clips.
And Olympic medals.
The last of these, unfortunately, are undergoing a dramatic transformation. Beginning with the 2010 Winter Games in Vancouver, Olympic medals are going to look badly formed radishes, with its curved shape and "I'm on acid"-like appearance.
The idea behind this, apparently, is to take into account the uniqueness of the Vancouver landscape, with its ocean waves, drifting snow and mountainous landscape. Additionally, every medal will be unique. Everyone who wins a medal in 2010 will have something that's one of a kind.
So essentially:
After 114 years, it was decided that the current shape and size of an Olympic medal -- you know, round -- was no longer good enough for the Olympic community at large. So they decided to add some curves to it because...
...well, I guess it beats making them square.
But we can't stop there. Each of the medals has a unique hand-cropped section of the abstract art, making every medal one of a kind. Because apparently, just winning an Olympic medal -- which, last I checked, wasn't the easiest thing in the world to do -- no longer carried the same weight. Now it's not enough to win a medal in 2010. My medal has to look different from the dude who won in the same medal in the same event in 1976.
I mean: C'mon.
What I'm saying is: Olympic medals are one of the things they got right the first time. They don't have to change it. A tweak here and there? Fine. Make the paint with less lead. Make the medal strap a little firmer. All acceptable things. But don't change it completely!! What the hell is wrong with you?!? While we're at it, let's add green to the American flag. Let's make the steering wheels on cars octagons. Let's dye salt purple.
If it ain't broke, don't fix it.
"If it ain't broke, don't fix it."
Another thing that shouldn't be changed.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
NBA legend Kareen Abdul-Jabbar was recently on an episode of celebrity Jeopardy and he was asked a question about a line in a movie that he delivered.
And he got it wrong!!
It's OK, Kareem. As a lifelong Laker fan, I still love you.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
People Who Have 'Decorative' Towels: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
Before I begin this week's blog, I'd like to be serious for a minute and talk about an organization that is aiming to help the people of the Philippines who were devastated by the recent Typhoon Ondoy.
HOPE worldwide is an international charity that aims to change lives by harnessing the compassion and commitment of dedicated staff and volunteers to deliver sustainable, high-impact, community-based services to the poor and needy. A good friend of mine who has volunteered all over the world for Hope worldwide helped to build and work in an facility called the Center of HOPE Worldwide Orphanage in Manila. It is a treatment center for abused children in the Philippines, specializing in child sexual and physical abuse cases primarily. The center offers short-term and long-term residential care, treatment and placement, meeting the holistic needs of each child. The center has been completely flooded and destroyed, and they are working to take care of the people who were displaced as a result.
Here is a link to how you can make a donation to helping the victims of this terrible disaster reclaim their lives.
On a personal note: Like many of us, when I initially heard about the typhoon, I admittedly thought little of it. Was it sad to hear? Yes. But was I greatly affected in any way by the news? No. To be frank, I was pretty disconnected from the whole thing. When tragic events like this happen, most of us don't stop to realize just how much people's lives have been affected by this, because simply put we're not the ones being affected.
But when my friend told me about the orphanage in Manila, and that she knows of several people who have perished or are declared missing as a result of the typhoon, I began seeing things in a different light. And I began to think that in these times, we have to look beyond our little bubble. We have to see the world around us and help out -- all of us -- when others are in need.
In addition, a small donation really goes on a long way. Living in America, we don't see how far a little money can go. But in an impoverished nation, a $25 donation -- one donation!! -- can help feed a family for months. All of this -- individually -- can make a big difference with just a small effort.
So please click on the link above and make a donation. You will be changing a life for the better.
And now for the blog. :-)
I was at a party recently and I asked my buddy where the bathroom was. As he pointed down the hallway, I started to walk toward the area when my buddy gave me the following warning:
Oh hey, don't use the pink towels. They're for show.
Don't use the pink towels. They're for show.
Here's the thing: I'm a traditionalist. I don't believe in having items that are meant for regular use but don't get used because they look pretty. It doesn't work for me. A towel is meant to dry things: Your hands, dishes, the occasional spill. It's not meant as a decoration. They're towels, people!!
My buddy, to his credit, looked embarrassed. And I know why: This was his girlfriend's doing. See, at the risk of sounding sexist, this idea -- of not allowing people to use items that are meant to be used regularly because they fit within your home's color scheme and you don't want to mess it up -- is a female thing.
That's right: I said it.
I have never known a guy who said to me: "No Nevin!! Don't use that towel!! It's a display towel!! It's for aesthetic appeal!! What the hell's wrong with you?!?!" But women will say that. Not only that, but when they say it, it sounds strangely natural. And what happens when you actually use that towel? You'd have thought you had killed one of their beloved pets. They yell at you, throw things at you, chase after you with knives. You're no longer allowed in their home, your male friend gets denied sex by her every time he hangs out with you or even speaks about you, and the woman always refers to you as:
That dumb ass who f******* up my nice towels.
Growing up, my mom took this concept one step further. In the living room, we had a couch that we had purchased for several hundred dollars that had a prominent space in our living room. And we were never able to sit on it. I mean never. Guests couldn't even sit on it. It's a couch. It's meant to put your butt on. But my mom had a dream as a little girl of a pretty little living room with a big nice white couch, and she would be damned if her family was going to crush that dream.
I have a place of my own now. And I'm happy to say that I have a wife who is OK with using all of our towels. Also, I've yet to hear her say something about purchasing a non-usable couch.
But am I in the clear?
"Now Nev, we got these really nice plates as a wedding gift," she said recently. "They're really, really good quality.
"Never use them."
Guess not.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGNS OF THE APOCALYPSE
My buddy, cousin-in-law and podcast partner Mike recently told me about an Applebees commercial that said the following:
"Great news! Applebees appetizer and two entree's menu now has real food!"
Sources tell me they were also going to include the words "as opposed to the crap we normally serve" but it got left on the cutting room floor.
HOPE worldwide is an international charity that aims to change lives by harnessing the compassion and commitment of dedicated staff and volunteers to deliver sustainable, high-impact, community-based services to the poor and needy. A good friend of mine who has volunteered all over the world for Hope worldwide helped to build and work in an facility called the Center of HOPE Worldwide Orphanage in Manila. It is a treatment center for abused children in the Philippines, specializing in child sexual and physical abuse cases primarily. The center offers short-term and long-term residential care, treatment and placement, meeting the holistic needs of each child. The center has been completely flooded and destroyed, and they are working to take care of the people who were displaced as a result.
Here is a link to how you can make a donation to helping the victims of this terrible disaster reclaim their lives.
On a personal note: Like many of us, when I initially heard about the typhoon, I admittedly thought little of it. Was it sad to hear? Yes. But was I greatly affected in any way by the news? No. To be frank, I was pretty disconnected from the whole thing. When tragic events like this happen, most of us don't stop to realize just how much people's lives have been affected by this, because simply put we're not the ones being affected.
But when my friend told me about the orphanage in Manila, and that she knows of several people who have perished or are declared missing as a result of the typhoon, I began seeing things in a different light. And I began to think that in these times, we have to look beyond our little bubble. We have to see the world around us and help out -- all of us -- when others are in need.
In addition, a small donation really goes on a long way. Living in America, we don't see how far a little money can go. But in an impoverished nation, a $25 donation -- one donation!! -- can help feed a family for months. All of this -- individually -- can make a big difference with just a small effort.
So please click on the link above and make a donation. You will be changing a life for the better.
And now for the blog. :-)
I was at a party recently and I asked my buddy where the bathroom was. As he pointed down the hallway, I started to walk toward the area when my buddy gave me the following warning:
Oh hey, don't use the pink towels. They're for show.
Don't use the pink towels. They're for show.
Here's the thing: I'm a traditionalist. I don't believe in having items that are meant for regular use but don't get used because they look pretty. It doesn't work for me. A towel is meant to dry things: Your hands, dishes, the occasional spill. It's not meant as a decoration. They're towels, people!!
My buddy, to his credit, looked embarrassed. And I know why: This was his girlfriend's doing. See, at the risk of sounding sexist, this idea -- of not allowing people to use items that are meant to be used regularly because they fit within your home's color scheme and you don't want to mess it up -- is a female thing.
That's right: I said it.
I have never known a guy who said to me: "No Nevin!! Don't use that towel!! It's a display towel!! It's for aesthetic appeal!! What the hell's wrong with you?!?!" But women will say that. Not only that, but when they say it, it sounds strangely natural. And what happens when you actually use that towel? You'd have thought you had killed one of their beloved pets. They yell at you, throw things at you, chase after you with knives. You're no longer allowed in their home, your male friend gets denied sex by her every time he hangs out with you or even speaks about you, and the woman always refers to you as:
That dumb ass who f******* up my nice towels.
Growing up, my mom took this concept one step further. In the living room, we had a couch that we had purchased for several hundred dollars that had a prominent space in our living room. And we were never able to sit on it. I mean never. Guests couldn't even sit on it. It's a couch. It's meant to put your butt on. But my mom had a dream as a little girl of a pretty little living room with a big nice white couch, and she would be damned if her family was going to crush that dream.
I have a place of my own now. And I'm happy to say that I have a wife who is OK with using all of our towels. Also, I've yet to hear her say something about purchasing a non-usable couch.
But am I in the clear?
"Now Nev, we got these really nice plates as a wedding gift," she said recently. "They're really, really good quality.
"Never use them."
Guess not.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGNS OF THE APOCALYPSE
My buddy, cousin-in-law and podcast partner Mike recently told me about an Applebees commercial that said the following:
"Great news! Applebees appetizer and two entree's menu now has real food!"
Sources tell me they were also going to include the words "as opposed to the crap we normally serve" but it got left on the cutting room floor.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
The Laundry Machines And The Quarters They Demand: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
One of the final things Ramona and I did before we got married was create a joint account, with the short-term intent of a) paying for some of the wedding stuff, and the long-term intent of b) saving up to buy a house one day. A place of our own is something we're really hoping for, so we can have a backyard, pets, more room, a place for our future kids to call "the house we grew up in"...
...and our very own washer and dryer.
Our very own washer and dryer. Admittedly, until I moved into my own place a while back, I didn't realize what a luxury that was. See, like most boys, my mommy did my laundry growing up. :-) I lived in a house during most of my formative years (with a washer and dryer in tow) and even when I lived with my mom in an apartment for a few years, she continued to do the laundry so I never struggled much with the concept of having to share a common laundry room.
And then I got my own apartment and the pain became my own.
Let's start with quarters. Every time you're ready to do the laundry, you realize that all the quarters have somehow mysteriously fallen off the face of the Earth because they are nowhere to be found. Prior to your search for these coins, you have an ambitious goal of doing two loads each of washing and drying.
The cost: 20 quarters.
But early in your search, you realize that finding 20 quarters may be problematic, so you say to yourself: "Well, I really can get away with one load of drying." So now you only have to find 15 quarters.
Midway through your search, when you've found only two quarters and are starting to look underneath cushions, you decide that one load of wash and drying will have to do because the search for money has really gotten annoying and you're now willing to take the risk of jamming every article of clothing into one machine and hoping it doesn't overflow.
So now you're down to having to find 10 quarters.
And then, after 90 minutes of futilely searching and coming to the conclusion that the quarters are probably hiding in a dark corner of the closet, mocking you for not being able to find them, you say to yourself: "Screw it, I'll do one load of wash, I'll dry the clothes out on my dust-infested patio (because I haven't swept in four years) and the rest of the clothes will remain in a dirty pile in the bedroom that I hope against hope will miraculously clean themselves."
Even then, you're sometimes short 1-2 quarters and you find yourself staring at the laundry machine longingly, wishing that it took dimes.
Ya know?
And then there's actually being able to use the machines. There's nothing like finding the quarters you need, packing up your dirty clothes and detergent, marching triumphantly down to the laundry room, only to find out that all the machines are in use.
It's a chess game, really, trying to figure out when the machines will be free. Sundays are definitely out; that's the universal laundry day. Saturdays are off-limits too, because that day gets a "Oh man I better do my laundry today because on Sunday it will be a madhouse" traffic. Mondays suck because it's the day that everyone who didn't do their laundry on Saturday or Sunday do their laundry. Fridays are bad because you find yourself being more willing to put a loaded pistol next to your head than to start the weekend doing laundry. Tuesdays and Wednesdays, all the good TV shows are on. And on Thursday, you're so excited that you only have one day left in the work week that you don't want to lose your euphoria by whipping out the Tide.
So if you're like me, you put off doing laundry until you find yourself completely out of socks, down to one pair of surfboard boxers, and are seriously pondering whether you can get away with wearing your high school gym shorts to work the next day because that's the only thing you have left that's clean.
And then, and only then, do you do the laundry.
At 3 a.m. on a random Tuesday.
Because that's the only time the machines are free.
So when Ramona and I eventually get a house, I plan to celebrate with a nice dinner, a bottle of chilled Diet Dr. Pepper, and a basket full of laundry that will keep me in bleach until the sun comes up.
I can't think of a more beautiful, happy image.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
A friend of mine recently sent me this video link about a school answering machine in Australia. It's hysterical and, one way or another, will change the face of public education as we know it. :-)
...and our very own washer and dryer.
Our very own washer and dryer. Admittedly, until I moved into my own place a while back, I didn't realize what a luxury that was. See, like most boys, my mommy did my laundry growing up. :-) I lived in a house during most of my formative years (with a washer and dryer in tow) and even when I lived with my mom in an apartment for a few years, she continued to do the laundry so I never struggled much with the concept of having to share a common laundry room.
And then I got my own apartment and the pain became my own.
Let's start with quarters. Every time you're ready to do the laundry, you realize that all the quarters have somehow mysteriously fallen off the face of the Earth because they are nowhere to be found. Prior to your search for these coins, you have an ambitious goal of doing two loads each of washing and drying.
The cost: 20 quarters.
But early in your search, you realize that finding 20 quarters may be problematic, so you say to yourself: "Well, I really can get away with one load of drying." So now you only have to find 15 quarters.
Midway through your search, when you've found only two quarters and are starting to look underneath cushions, you decide that one load of wash and drying will have to do because the search for money has really gotten annoying and you're now willing to take the risk of jamming every article of clothing into one machine and hoping it doesn't overflow.
So now you're down to having to find 10 quarters.
And then, after 90 minutes of futilely searching and coming to the conclusion that the quarters are probably hiding in a dark corner of the closet, mocking you for not being able to find them, you say to yourself: "Screw it, I'll do one load of wash, I'll dry the clothes out on my dust-infested patio (because I haven't swept in four years) and the rest of the clothes will remain in a dirty pile in the bedroom that I hope against hope will miraculously clean themselves."
Even then, you're sometimes short 1-2 quarters and you find yourself staring at the laundry machine longingly, wishing that it took dimes.
Ya know?
And then there's actually being able to use the machines. There's nothing like finding the quarters you need, packing up your dirty clothes and detergent, marching triumphantly down to the laundry room, only to find out that all the machines are in use.
It's a chess game, really, trying to figure out when the machines will be free. Sundays are definitely out; that's the universal laundry day. Saturdays are off-limits too, because that day gets a "Oh man I better do my laundry today because on Sunday it will be a madhouse" traffic. Mondays suck because it's the day that everyone who didn't do their laundry on Saturday or Sunday do their laundry. Fridays are bad because you find yourself being more willing to put a loaded pistol next to your head than to start the weekend doing laundry. Tuesdays and Wednesdays, all the good TV shows are on. And on Thursday, you're so excited that you only have one day left in the work week that you don't want to lose your euphoria by whipping out the Tide.
So if you're like me, you put off doing laundry until you find yourself completely out of socks, down to one pair of surfboard boxers, and are seriously pondering whether you can get away with wearing your high school gym shorts to work the next day because that's the only thing you have left that's clean.
And then, and only then, do you do the laundry.
At 3 a.m. on a random Tuesday.
Because that's the only time the machines are free.
So when Ramona and I eventually get a house, I plan to celebrate with a nice dinner, a bottle of chilled Diet Dr. Pepper, and a basket full of laundry that will keep me in bleach until the sun comes up.
I can't think of a more beautiful, happy image.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
A friend of mine recently sent me this video link about a school answering machine in Australia. It's hysterical and, one way or another, will change the face of public education as we know it. :-)
Friday, September 25, 2009
Being Asked To Write Blogs About Random, Idiotic Topics: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
Every once in a while, a friend of mine will ask me to write a blog on some random, idiotic topic. Now while I've created a entire blog universe writing about random, idiotic topics, what people don't often realize is that there's an art form to it. See, not every random, idiotic topic speaks to everybody. Some random, idiotic topics are narrower in scope than others, and it's my job to decipher which random, idiotic topics get written up, and which ones don't.
It's a thankless job. :-(
So when I get a request from a friend to write about attending a Catholic wedding or people who put their dogs in purses, I often politely decline. My latest request for a blog topic?
Slurpees.
I get a message on Facebook from my friend Ian:
Ask me about my Slurpee adventure. Great blog stuff.
Uh-huh.
Though thoroughly unconvinced, I tried to keep an open idea as Ian and I got in contact and he began telling me about how the frozen beverage affected his day. Evidently, he went to his local 7-11 to buy a Slurpee and when he went to the counter to purchase it, he whipped out his debit card only to find out that the minimum charge for the debit card was $3 and his Slurpee only cost $1.79.
"So I didn't buy it and went to a second 7-11," he said. "But they had the same thing too with the debit card. So I went to a third one and they let me use my debit card. But they only had banana flavor and I hate banana, but by that point I was tired so I bought it."
The. End.
Now: I consider myself a fairly talented writer. But trying to make an entertaining blog out of that ridiculous story and parting seas are two things not in my skill set.
So after breaking the news that "No Ian, I'm not going to make this into a blog because...well, I'm just not" I nonetheless had the following questions:
Question 1:
Nev: Why didn't you just spend an extra $1.21 at the first 7-11 so you could use your card?
Ian: It was the principle of the matter!! Why should I be forced to buy something extra I don't need?
Nev: Ian, it was an extra $1.21.
Ian: Ian says no!!!
Right.
Question 2:
Nev: Did it ever occur to you that you were spending more than $1.21 in gas going to the other two 7-11s?
Ian: Maybe so, but I was making a statement.
Nev: Dude, it's a buck-twenty-one."
Ian: I'm a patriot!!
I'm. A. Patriot.
You can't make this stuff up.
Question 3:
Nev: So you ended getting a banana Slurpee, which you hated.
Ian: Right.
Nev: Just out of curiosity, at the first 7-11, did you make a Slurpee to your liking?
Ian: Yeah. Cherry and blueberry. My favorite.
Nev: So basically, you spent more money and wasted more time to buy a Slurpee you didn't want?
(pause)
Ian: Maybe so. But I kept my dignity.
Wow.
So anyways:
Ian: So are you gonna make this a blog or not?
Nev: Not.
Ian: Why?
Nev: Oh, I don't know. It's STUPID!?!?
Ian: Write about my suffering!!
Nev: What suffering? You refused to spend $1.21 and ended up spending more for something you didn't want!! That's not suffering, that's lunacy.
Ian: But I wanna be a part of your blog!!
Nev: I'm sorry, Ian. But some dreams go unfulfilled.
(pause)
Ian: OK then, so what random, idiotic topic are you gonna write about this week?
Nev: Oh, you know me. I'll think of something.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
I recently got in touch with a dude in New Zealand named Nevdog Williams!! Seriously, the guy is named Nevdog and he lives on the other side of the world. U.S. Nevdogg and Kiwi Nevdogg have been sending messages through Facebook. He has license plates that say "Nevdog" on them, and he said that if I'm ever in New Zealand, he'll take me pig farming!!!
:-)
It's a thankless job. :-(
So when I get a request from a friend to write about attending a Catholic wedding or people who put their dogs in purses, I often politely decline. My latest request for a blog topic?
Slurpees.
I get a message on Facebook from my friend Ian:
Ask me about my Slurpee adventure. Great blog stuff.
Uh-huh.
Though thoroughly unconvinced, I tried to keep an open idea as Ian and I got in contact and he began telling me about how the frozen beverage affected his day. Evidently, he went to his local 7-11 to buy a Slurpee and when he went to the counter to purchase it, he whipped out his debit card only to find out that the minimum charge for the debit card was $3 and his Slurpee only cost $1.79.
"So I didn't buy it and went to a second 7-11," he said. "But they had the same thing too with the debit card. So I went to a third one and they let me use my debit card. But they only had banana flavor and I hate banana, but by that point I was tired so I bought it."
The. End.
Now: I consider myself a fairly talented writer. But trying to make an entertaining blog out of that ridiculous story and parting seas are two things not in my skill set.
So after breaking the news that "No Ian, I'm not going to make this into a blog because...well, I'm just not" I nonetheless had the following questions:
Question 1:
Nev: Why didn't you just spend an extra $1.21 at the first 7-11 so you could use your card?
Ian: It was the principle of the matter!! Why should I be forced to buy something extra I don't need?
Nev: Ian, it was an extra $1.21.
Ian: Ian says no!!!
Right.
Question 2:
Nev: Did it ever occur to you that you were spending more than $1.21 in gas going to the other two 7-11s?
Ian: Maybe so, but I was making a statement.
Nev: Dude, it's a buck-twenty-one."
Ian: I'm a patriot!!
I'm. A. Patriot.
You can't make this stuff up.
Question 3:
Nev: So you ended getting a banana Slurpee, which you hated.
Ian: Right.
Nev: Just out of curiosity, at the first 7-11, did you make a Slurpee to your liking?
Ian: Yeah. Cherry and blueberry. My favorite.
Nev: So basically, you spent more money and wasted more time to buy a Slurpee you didn't want?
(pause)
Ian: Maybe so. But I kept my dignity.
Wow.
So anyways:
Ian: So are you gonna make this a blog or not?
Nev: Not.
Ian: Why?
Nev: Oh, I don't know. It's STUPID!?!?
Ian: Write about my suffering!!
Nev: What suffering? You refused to spend $1.21 and ended up spending more for something you didn't want!! That's not suffering, that's lunacy.
Ian: But I wanna be a part of your blog!!
Nev: I'm sorry, Ian. But some dreams go unfulfilled.
(pause)
Ian: OK then, so what random, idiotic topic are you gonna write about this week?
Nev: Oh, you know me. I'll think of something.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
I recently got in touch with a dude in New Zealand named Nevdog Williams!! Seriously, the guy is named Nevdog and he lives on the other side of the world. U.S. Nevdogg and Kiwi Nevdogg have been sending messages through Facebook. He has license plates that say "Nevdog" on them, and he said that if I'm ever in New Zealand, he'll take me pig farming!!!
:-)
Friday, September 18, 2009
Being A Crazy, Psycho Sports Fan: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
Have you ever watched a sporting event -- whether it be baseball, basketball, football, boxing -- and you're right near an extremely psychotic fan who seems to live and die on every play? The type of fan who goes absolutely bonkers when his team does something good, and...well...absolutely bonkers when his team does bad? The type of fan who won't calm down for even a second unless his team is up 56-3?
That's me. I'm that psycho fan. :-)
We are currently in the midst of college football season. And for the last 23 years, I have been a fan of USC. And last week, my Trojans--ranked third in the nation -- traveled to Columbus, Ohio, to play the eighth-ranked Ohio State Buckeyes.
And so it was last week that I went over to my Dad's -- a fellow USC fan, who sat me on his knee when I watched my first USC game on TV, in 1986 against Notre Dame -- to watch the game.
And with the game close throughout, psycho fan Nev took center stage.
Understand this: I'm considered a nice guy. Even sensitive. But when it comes to watching one of my favorite sports teams, psycho fan Nev will beat down anyone in his way to make sure victory is obtained.
And last week, that included my dad.
My poor Pops. With the USC game in doubt until the final seconds, he faced my full wrath throughout the game. Everything he said irritated me. Any mere mention of negativity was met with a slew of venom on my end. You see, to be honest, when one of my teams is in a close battle, I'm not a fun person to be around. When USC played its season opener on Sept. 5, for example, my wife Ramona was about to wander into the living room when she heard me screaming at the television that we were down 3-0.
She then decided it was better to go back to sleep.
It's nice when you have a wife who understands you. :-)
Anyways, back to my dad and my wrath. With USC trailing most of the game, here's some of the onslaught my dad had to deal with:
Dad: The problem is, USC is being outcoached.
Nev: Outcoached. That's all you ever say. Outcoached. Each year, every year, every game, you say we're being outcoached when we're losing. Well you know what? I'm tired of it!! You are forbidden to say "outcoached" for the rest of the year!! God damn it, get some new material already!!!!!
Dad: USC was favored by 6 1/2, and I never thought they'd cover.
Nev: You never said that!! You can't say that now!! You can't say you never thought they'd cover when they're losing!! You never said that beforehand!! Never never never!! You lie!!!!!
(note: Actually, my dad did say that before the game. Sorry Dad. That one's on me.)
And then there was:
Dad's girlfriend Vera (speaking to my dad): Why don't you sit on the couch next to your son?
Nev (speaking to my dad): Don't you dare even think about sitting next to me until you get your mind right!!!!!
And finally, my dad said a few mean things about the struggles of the NFL's Oakland Raiders, another one of my favorite teams.
Nev: I HAVE NO FATHER!!!!!
Like I said: Psycho fan. :-)
And then, as I mentioned before, there's me yelling at the TV. Specifically, at the players on the screen. When the USC safety went out with an injury, I screamed at him to get a cortizone shot and suck it up. When the Ohio State quarterback scrambled for a first down, I demanded that the USC defenders take out his knees and "TEAR SOME LIGAMENTS!!!!!"
What can I say? I'm crazy.
But I noticed something last week that I've started noticing the past several months. These games -- these close games, this yelling and screaming and carrying on and living and dying on every play -- are taking their toll on me. I find myself taking longer to recover between games. In my younger days, I could yell at the top of my lungs and threaten everyone around me, and the next day I'm back out and ready to go. But after last week's game, I needed more time to mend. I was bruised, battered, exhausted. It wasn't until yesterday that I felt like my old self again.
It was yet another reminder that --at age 30 -- I wasn't quite as young as I used to be.
My father-in-law Jim warned me about this one time. Jim is a UCLA alum and, in his day, he lived and died with the Bruins on every play. But eventually, he told me, he just couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't bring the energy to every game like he used to. It was just too much, he said. He got older, had more responsibilities, and eventually he just got tired of the roller coaster ride.
He still watches UCLA games, still gets excited when they do well. But as far as being a crazy, psycho fan, those days -- he said -- are over.
And one day, they will be for me too.
There are fewer psycho fan Nev days ahead than there are behind. I realize that. I'm not sure when the end of the road is going to be. Maybe in two years, three years, four or even five. But I do know that I can't do this forever. I'm not a kid anymore, and eventually I'll have to step aside and let the new generation of psycho fans take over.
But for now: Psycho fan Nev remains. :-)
One last thing about watching last week's game with my dad:
Following USC's come-from-behind victory, the TV cameras panned to a shot of all the sad Ohio State players and coaches.
My dad and I pointed at them and laughed.
Then we hugged.
And all was forgiven.
A true father-son moment.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
Have you ever wondered how many punches I threw at my wedding?
Now you can find out.
:-)
Check out this video of me and Ramona's grand entrance on the day we said "I do."
That's me. I'm that psycho fan. :-)
We are currently in the midst of college football season. And for the last 23 years, I have been a fan of USC. And last week, my Trojans--ranked third in the nation -- traveled to Columbus, Ohio, to play the eighth-ranked Ohio State Buckeyes.
And so it was last week that I went over to my Dad's -- a fellow USC fan, who sat me on his knee when I watched my first USC game on TV, in 1986 against Notre Dame -- to watch the game.
And with the game close throughout, psycho fan Nev took center stage.
Understand this: I'm considered a nice guy. Even sensitive. But when it comes to watching one of my favorite sports teams, psycho fan Nev will beat down anyone in his way to make sure victory is obtained.
And last week, that included my dad.
My poor Pops. With the USC game in doubt until the final seconds, he faced my full wrath throughout the game. Everything he said irritated me. Any mere mention of negativity was met with a slew of venom on my end. You see, to be honest, when one of my teams is in a close battle, I'm not a fun person to be around. When USC played its season opener on Sept. 5, for example, my wife Ramona was about to wander into the living room when she heard me screaming at the television that we were down 3-0.
She then decided it was better to go back to sleep.
It's nice when you have a wife who understands you. :-)
Anyways, back to my dad and my wrath. With USC trailing most of the game, here's some of the onslaught my dad had to deal with:
Dad: The problem is, USC is being outcoached.
Nev: Outcoached. That's all you ever say. Outcoached. Each year, every year, every game, you say we're being outcoached when we're losing. Well you know what? I'm tired of it!! You are forbidden to say "outcoached" for the rest of the year!! God damn it, get some new material already!!!!!
Dad: USC was favored by 6 1/2, and I never thought they'd cover.
Nev: You never said that!! You can't say that now!! You can't say you never thought they'd cover when they're losing!! You never said that beforehand!! Never never never!! You lie!!!!!
(note: Actually, my dad did say that before the game. Sorry Dad. That one's on me.)
And then there was:
Dad's girlfriend Vera (speaking to my dad): Why don't you sit on the couch next to your son?
Nev (speaking to my dad): Don't you dare even think about sitting next to me until you get your mind right!!!!!
And finally, my dad said a few mean things about the struggles of the NFL's Oakland Raiders, another one of my favorite teams.
Nev: I HAVE NO FATHER!!!!!
Like I said: Psycho fan. :-)
And then, as I mentioned before, there's me yelling at the TV. Specifically, at the players on the screen. When the USC safety went out with an injury, I screamed at him to get a cortizone shot and suck it up. When the Ohio State quarterback scrambled for a first down, I demanded that the USC defenders take out his knees and "TEAR SOME LIGAMENTS!!!!!"
What can I say? I'm crazy.
But I noticed something last week that I've started noticing the past several months. These games -- these close games, this yelling and screaming and carrying on and living and dying on every play -- are taking their toll on me. I find myself taking longer to recover between games. In my younger days, I could yell at the top of my lungs and threaten everyone around me, and the next day I'm back out and ready to go. But after last week's game, I needed more time to mend. I was bruised, battered, exhausted. It wasn't until yesterday that I felt like my old self again.
It was yet another reminder that --at age 30 -- I wasn't quite as young as I used to be.
My father-in-law Jim warned me about this one time. Jim is a UCLA alum and, in his day, he lived and died with the Bruins on every play. But eventually, he told me, he just couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't bring the energy to every game like he used to. It was just too much, he said. He got older, had more responsibilities, and eventually he just got tired of the roller coaster ride.
He still watches UCLA games, still gets excited when they do well. But as far as being a crazy, psycho fan, those days -- he said -- are over.
And one day, they will be for me too.
There are fewer psycho fan Nev days ahead than there are behind. I realize that. I'm not sure when the end of the road is going to be. Maybe in two years, three years, four or even five. But I do know that I can't do this forever. I'm not a kid anymore, and eventually I'll have to step aside and let the new generation of psycho fans take over.
But for now: Psycho fan Nev remains. :-)
One last thing about watching last week's game with my dad:
Following USC's come-from-behind victory, the TV cameras panned to a shot of all the sad Ohio State players and coaches.
My dad and I pointed at them and laughed.
Then we hugged.
And all was forgiven.
A true father-son moment.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
Have you ever wondered how many punches I threw at my wedding?
Now you can find out.
:-)
Check out this video of me and Ramona's grand entrance on the day we said "I do."
Friday, September 11, 2009
Saying Goodbye To An Old Friend: My Tennis Shoes: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
Last weekend, I said goodbye to an old friend.
My friend and I had been through the wars together the past few years. We ate together, drank together, watched sports together, played video games together, laughed together, cried together, counseled friends together, traveled together...hell, I thought one day we were going to die together.
But sadly, my friend passed on before me.
My good friend...the tennis shoes.
My tennis shoes. For the past three years, they've seen me through thick and thin. See, women traditionally are the gender that buys tons of shoes, but men are the gender that really bond with theirs. Our tennis shoes are kind of like dogs. We appreciate them for their kindness, their warmth, their loyalty. We don't just wear them once and take them to the pound. We wear them constantly, every day, every hour, and see them through their final days until the sad day when we have to put them to sleep.
In my case, that sad day was last week. We were packing up to head back home from our honeymoon in Hawaii when my wife Ramona noticed a big tear in one of the shoes. We had done a rather brutal hike up a rocky trail the other day that no doubt proved to be too much for my old friend. So, seeing that they were literally falling apart at the seams, I agreed to leave them in the hotel trash can.
And a part of me was left in that trash can too. :-(
Men everywhere understand where I'm coming from.
Now: Women reading this may be asking how a man can wear a disgusting pair of tennis shoes day in and day out even as the wear and tear is apparent? Well let me ask you this: Do you put a dog down at the first sign of trouble? If a loved one is put on life support, is your first instinct to pull the plug and watch him or her die? If your star pitcher walks a couple of batters, do you automatically take him out of the game?
No.
Men stick by their tennis shoes, like they stood by for us. Our tennis shoes loved us, and we our tennis shoes. Our tennis shoes never turned their back on us, so what right do I have to do so?
When the going gets tough, a man and his tennis shoes work through the rough times.
Ramona brought me a new pair of tennis shoes. My new tennis shoes are gray, my old tennis shoes were white. My new tennis shoes are Sketchers, my old tennis shoes were a no-name brand. My new tennis shoes retail for $80, my old tennis shoes served me faithfully for a mere $20.
I'm sure me and my new tennis shoes will get along. But still...
...it will take time.
Right now, my old tennis shoes are on my mind.
Wherever they are, I hope their suffering has ended.
Farewell, old friend.
Farewell.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
I was in 7-11 the other day getting a Big Gulp when I saw the guy ahead purchasing a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
A dude buying cereal.
At 7-11.
That's just odd.
My friend and I had been through the wars together the past few years. We ate together, drank together, watched sports together, played video games together, laughed together, cried together, counseled friends together, traveled together...hell, I thought one day we were going to die together.
But sadly, my friend passed on before me.
My good friend...the tennis shoes.
My tennis shoes. For the past three years, they've seen me through thick and thin. See, women traditionally are the gender that buys tons of shoes, but men are the gender that really bond with theirs. Our tennis shoes are kind of like dogs. We appreciate them for their kindness, their warmth, their loyalty. We don't just wear them once and take them to the pound. We wear them constantly, every day, every hour, and see them through their final days until the sad day when we have to put them to sleep.
In my case, that sad day was last week. We were packing up to head back home from our honeymoon in Hawaii when my wife Ramona noticed a big tear in one of the shoes. We had done a rather brutal hike up a rocky trail the other day that no doubt proved to be too much for my old friend. So, seeing that they were literally falling apart at the seams, I agreed to leave them in the hotel trash can.
And a part of me was left in that trash can too. :-(
Men everywhere understand where I'm coming from.
Now: Women reading this may be asking how a man can wear a disgusting pair of tennis shoes day in and day out even as the wear and tear is apparent? Well let me ask you this: Do you put a dog down at the first sign of trouble? If a loved one is put on life support, is your first instinct to pull the plug and watch him or her die? If your star pitcher walks a couple of batters, do you automatically take him out of the game?
No.
Men stick by their tennis shoes, like they stood by for us. Our tennis shoes loved us, and we our tennis shoes. Our tennis shoes never turned their back on us, so what right do I have to do so?
When the going gets tough, a man and his tennis shoes work through the rough times.
Ramona brought me a new pair of tennis shoes. My new tennis shoes are gray, my old tennis shoes were white. My new tennis shoes are Sketchers, my old tennis shoes were a no-name brand. My new tennis shoes retail for $80, my old tennis shoes served me faithfully for a mere $20.
I'm sure me and my new tennis shoes will get along. But still...
...it will take time.
Right now, my old tennis shoes are on my mind.
Wherever they are, I hope their suffering has ended.
Farewell, old friend.
Farewell.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
I was in 7-11 the other day getting a Big Gulp when I saw the guy ahead purchasing a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
A dude buying cereal.
At 7-11.
That's just odd.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Yearning To Fly First Class: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
The first time I was ever on an airplane, I was 6 years old. I remember the seats being comfy, having plenty of leg room and even getting an in-flight meal of hot dogs and potato chips.
Plus, I was given heaping glasses of orange juice. :-)
And that was the first and only time I have ever flown first class.
First class. We all have to walk through it every time we shuffle down to coach. First class. With its comfy leather seats. First class. Where the patrons get complimentary glasses of orange juice and champagne prior to takeoff.
First class.
No charge for the in-flight movie here.
Last night my wife Ramona and I took a red eye from Maui to Los Angeles, heading home after our honeymoon. And as we walked through first class into our cramped seats in coach, I found myself thinking the same things I always think about when I go through first class.
I found myself thinking how spoiled the folks in first class must be. I found myself thinking how these people don't know what it's like to suffer through bad food (which you have to pay for) and TVs that don't work half of the time. I found myself thinking how much I hate these people for their obvious wealth.
Man, do I want to be one of them!!
Let's face it: We all yearn to be among the pompous first class elite. We want to be spoiled, pampered, drink orange juice in fancy glasses like there's no tomorrow. We don't think that flying coach shows us that we're real people. And even if we did, who the %$#%& wants to be real?!?! Real is cramped, with screaming babies and lavatories that you have to share with 150 people. Real sucks.
And so, one day I vow to be fake. One day I vow to return to the world of make-believe. One day I vow to sit in first class, drink my OJ, enjoy my leg room, use my lavatory that I only have to share with 20 people, get my free in-flight movie, and...
Finally...
Insist on a special dietary meal of hot dogs and potato chips.
First class.
Where dreams happen.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
What's the deal with college football having teams do a pregame handshake? Postgame is one thing: The game is over, the battle has been won or lost, there's little more to do than to say "good game." But before the game? Why don't you just have soldiers of war shake hands before they shoot each other?
Hey Iraqi soldier, I'm going to do my very best to blow your brains out. But before I do, let's shake hands.
It makes no sense.
Plus, I was given heaping glasses of orange juice. :-)
And that was the first and only time I have ever flown first class.
First class. We all have to walk through it every time we shuffle down to coach. First class. With its comfy leather seats. First class. Where the patrons get complimentary glasses of orange juice and champagne prior to takeoff.
First class.
No charge for the in-flight movie here.
Last night my wife Ramona and I took a red eye from Maui to Los Angeles, heading home after our honeymoon. And as we walked through first class into our cramped seats in coach, I found myself thinking the same things I always think about when I go through first class.
I found myself thinking how spoiled the folks in first class must be. I found myself thinking how these people don't know what it's like to suffer through bad food (which you have to pay for) and TVs that don't work half of the time. I found myself thinking how much I hate these people for their obvious wealth.
Man, do I want to be one of them!!
Let's face it: We all yearn to be among the pompous first class elite. We want to be spoiled, pampered, drink orange juice in fancy glasses like there's no tomorrow. We don't think that flying coach shows us that we're real people. And even if we did, who the %$#%& wants to be real?!?! Real is cramped, with screaming babies and lavatories that you have to share with 150 people. Real sucks.
And so, one day I vow to be fake. One day I vow to return to the world of make-believe. One day I vow to sit in first class, drink my OJ, enjoy my leg room, use my lavatory that I only have to share with 20 people, get my free in-flight movie, and...
Finally...
Insist on a special dietary meal of hot dogs and potato chips.
First class.
Where dreams happen.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
What's the deal with college football having teams do a pregame handshake? Postgame is one thing: The game is over, the battle has been won or lost, there's little more to do than to say "good game." But before the game? Why don't you just have soldiers of war shake hands before they shoot each other?
Hey Iraqi soldier, I'm going to do my very best to blow your brains out. But before I do, let's shake hands.
It makes no sense.
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