Making A Left in Massachusetts

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Allstate Corp. (ALL) came out with its annual ranking of automobile accident prone cities, and drivers in Boston and Worcester, Massachusetts, topped the list. Living in Massachusetts, there is no denying that the drivers of Eastern and Central Massachusetts are complete morons. Each day there is something new and aberrant on the road that your driver’s ed teacher never instructed you to do.

Worcester topped the list. In the Woo, on average, a driver can expect a collision every 4.3 years. In Boston, safer and saner heads prevail and motorists can expect a collision every 4.4 years. Worcester and Boston usurped perennial front-runner, Washington, D.C., which had garnered the treasured top spot for six straight years.

The Commonwealth of Massachusetts is a place that NASCAR driver Tony Stewart could call home. This is the land where the evolutionary concept of nature versus nurture has to be examined. Is the root cause of this regional malady a lack of sufficient and competent driver’s education instructors or is there a recalcitrance to Massachusetts drivers that is beyond the realm of reason?

This is a part of the country where Masshole is invoked proudly. Where else do drivers routinely make left turns cutting off oncoming traffic and then give a pandering hand wave to the car that could have t-boned it? Only in Masshole Nation does this happen.

To provide an example, when a Masshole is pulling out of Dunkin’s after receiving an adipose injection of Coolatta or Iced Coffee, our Bay State motorist will plant her car in the lane of oncoming traffic to make a left.That’s right, the proper way to make a left turn out of a parking lot is to block traffic from the nearest lane and then force your way into the other lane. This is standard practice and nothing that is deemed weird or abnormal. The pandering hand wave is usually performed by a woman – who does not care – that she stopped the forward progress of five cars to make a left.

Want to take a left at a red light? If you’re the first car in line, gun your engine because you are expected to beat the car facing you and looking to go straight. Did your driver’s ed teacher instruct you to yield?  Fuck that bullshit. No Masshole worth his Dunk’s keychain is going to abide by that nonsense. Get a slow start off the line and expect a fusillade of car horns rebuking your familiarity with the rules of the road.

Making that lane change – only pussies signal.

The speed limit reads 65 mph. Either rev it up to 75 mph or get off the road.

Respect the bike lane. What is this China?

Purchasing car insurance in Massachusetts can be an expensive proposition, but living in Worcester is sublime. Only a true Masshole can appreciate the bleak, bone-chilling landscape offered by a winter in Worcester. As long as there is a reliable supply of booze, winter in Worcester is a manageable affair.

Winter will test a soul in Worcester or Boston. And maybe that is the underlying reason for the insanity of Massachusetts drivers; they would rather die in a car wreck than go through another soul-crushing winter.

Drinking in Suburbia

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When I wake up in the morning, the face that reflects back to me in the mirror bears a passing resemblance to a fellow I used to know, young Dave Sheridan. Am I confused by the time space continuum that has partially devoured my life or am I merely experiencing a middle age miasma that causes sudden bouts of, “Where the fuck has my life gone?”

If I’ve had a few drinks the night before, I see a fractured reflection of someone I vaguely knew and liked. The drinks and beers are always fun, but the next morning, they produce a fun house of distorted mirrors that increases the amount of depression borne by my slight hangover. A slight hangover, or an Apocalypse Now post-apocalyptic maelstrom of hurt, have nearly the identical results on this late model chassis and electrical system. The pain hurts more, the dehydration is equal to knuckle-headed, self-proclaimed survivalists who fancy a star turn on Naked and Afraid, and the mental hurdles caused by a night of mirth provide me with the verbal dexterity of a suburban mom’s brain pickled on Vicodin.

I used to find drinking provided me with a glimpse into the wild, untamed part of my soul, but now it represents a lovesick letter to a dear old friend. I no longer party, but I savor a few cocktails at a backyard barbecue. I don’t rage, but I now emote. There is no chugging, but I have been known to take a healthy gulp of chilled rose to wash down a cracker swimming under a creamy dollop of goat cheese. A shot is a four-ounce pour at a local brewery, where I will prattle on in complimentary tones about the brewmaster’s use of serrano chilies and Peruvian pears.

I am an experienced drinker. I don’t slur my words. I can walk a straight line. And there is no C.S.I. evidence of vomit stuck to my shoes or sleeves. I am dignified and proper.

In effect, I am washed-up. I can no longer compete at the highest levels. I view shots as Kryptonite that could disturb the fragile Sheridan ecosystem for days. The world does not need another Superfund site with New Jersey roots, and no one has any interest in a whisky-veined face that advertises the dark side of The Most Interesting Man in the World.

 

So, I hide out in suburbia. How wasted can a person get at Wild Wings or some inauthentic Mexican restaurant that serves margaritas more akin to smoothies than ancient agave temples to atavistic Mexican genius? Oh, I can still strike like the Black Mamba, at a barbecue with craft beers piled high in a plastic kiddie pool and covered in glorious, shimmering ice, but those moments are specks of hope on a suburban landscape denuded of gin and juice.

Quick Hits : Johnny Football’s Middle Finger

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The Cleveland Browns have announced that Johnny Manziel will not start the season under center, but that Brian Hoyer will get the starting nod at quarterback from first-year coach, Mike Pettine. Manziel will be the starter no later than Game 4. In fact, on a Vegas prop bet, take the under for Johnny Football’s first start. 

I love that Manziel gave the finger to the Washington Redskins’ sideline.When did cursing and crude hand gestures become a criminal offense on a professional football field? The NFL will reach into Manziel’s pocket and get some cash for the use of his middle finger, but the NFL also fines its players for wearing their socks at an improper length. 

Johnny Football

When speaking about the militarization of local police departments, in conjunction with the violent protests in Ferguson, Missouri, it has become common to report there are over 300 million guns in the United States of America. If that figure is correct, and there are over 300 million guns in America then there should be well over 300 million bullets available to Americans. With those numbers, how does the U.S. not survive a zombie apocalypse? Do the math and we should be okay. 

Did Robin Williams’ death raise awareness of depression or Parkinson’s Disease? When someone dies tragically, I cringe when someone states that this will “raise awareness.” Did the mass school shooting in Sandy Hook, Connecticut, raise awareness on our inept mental health system or the inadequacy of our gun control laws? I hope it raised something, but did it motivate change? Most people will mourn the loss of Robin Williams’ comic virtuosity, but it will probably make little impact on our society’s view of mental illness. 

Everyone has a favorite Robin Williams’ movie, and living in or just outside of Boston for a long time the natural pick would seem to be Good Will Hunting, but I’m going to dig a little deeper into the early part of Williams’ movie career and select another film set partially in New England, The World According to Garp. Williams plays it fairly straight as T.S. Garp, who is the only son of feminist icon, Jenny Fields. Director George Roy Hill stays true to John Irving’s  novel – Williams plays Garp as a teenager and as a father of two boys as the movie skillfully captures the full life of T.S. Garp. 

To quote Jenny Fields: “You know, everybody dies. My parents died. Your father died. Everybody dies. I’m going to die too. So will you. The thing is, to have a life before we die. It can be a real adventure having a life.”

John Irving raising the arm of Robin Williams (T.S. Garp) in victory. 

There will never be another stand-up comic like Robin Williams. His stand-up performances were a work of true incomprehensible genius. His improvisations were mind-blowing. 

To share my inner fantasy geek with my very large readership, I am a habitual viewer of TNT’s Falling Skies and FX’s The Strain. 

I want to go on Charlie Rose and converse with him in American Sign Language. 

Johnny Manziel should date Khloe Kardashian. 

If Steve Ballmer wasn’t worth approximately $18 million dollars after purchasing the NBA’s Los Angeles Clippers, would his 5-Hour Energy salesman motivational shtick be more appropriate for a late night infomercial, a sales seminar event at your local shitty motel ballroom, or found Sunday at a mega church? 

Ballmer

The last Super Bowl won by New England’s Bill Belichick and Tom Brady was on February 6, 2005. The Patriots defeated Freddy Mitchell’s Philadelphia Eagles, 24 – 21. The Patriots are once again anointed perennial contenders for a 2015 Super Bowl win, in Glendale, Arizona, but the Belichick and Brady show is going on nearly ten years without another piece of NFL hardware to put in owner Robert Kraft’s office. I get tired hearing of the Patriots’ superiority.  

Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony both have clothing lines at Kohl’s. Apparently their divorce does not extend to this department store. 

Coaching Youth Baseball

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My summer engagement as a youth baseball coach ended last night. We won a few games, the boys sported shirts that resembled tents used by Barnum and I realized that I enjoy winning a lot more than losing. I also came to the rapid conclusion that the ten-year-old and younger boys had the same attitude towards winning and losing. They liked to win. And they really didn’t like to lose.

When did our society get stuck on it’s all about having fun? When is losing fun?

I did lose my virginity, and that was definitely fun.

If I lost my wife to the next-door neighbor with the orange Hummer. That would not be fun.

The cat is lost. Depends on whether you like cats on how depressing that might be.

I lost my car keys. Always a frustrating and maddening experience that makes a person question one’s mental make-up and the possible advance of dementia.

Losing blows. Unless you are an NBA squad that is tanking the regular season in search of the next LeBron James. We instruct our kids to succeed in school, we applaud Tiger Moms, we look for the best possible summer camp, and then we mouth fake platitudes about having fun and it’s not about always winning. The kids aren’t buying it. They see their parents compete at work, try to bake the perfect cupcakes to complement their perfectly barbecued steak tips, have a landscape crew come in and create topiary artwork on their lawns, and then their parents mouth some pablum about having fun when success is not achieved. Kids understand when their parents are being disingenuous.

 

Topiary Artwork

 

I will freely admit to wanting my team to win. The kids were a lot easier to deal with when our team was winning than when they were watching their opponents run around the bases like migrating gazelle. When losing, bickering occurred on the field. Tears flowed at the prospect of a loss. And after one loss, there was this declarative sentence used by one of the older boys, “We suck.”

I tried to remind my young charges that the best major league baseball team will lose over sixty games this year, but they’re not listening to what I’m trying to sell. These kids didn’t want to hear that losing builds character. Character is something they watch on the Disney Channel and not linked to personal pride or conduct. These kids wanted to trash-talk in the handshake line, which is in some ways funny at that age, but also a jolt to the senses. The trash-talking was squashed, but Seattle Seahawks defensive back Richard Sherman is arguably the most celebrated defensive player in the NFL – and one of its greatest trash-talkers. Kids learn from what society celebrates.

 

 Hardball fans talking trash.

 

Will I coach again? Probably. I’ve got the bug, which doesn’t surprise me all that much. After our final game, I was in a fugue lamenting the end of summer ball and the encroaching end of summer. It felt like the season had only just started and its conclusion was far too soon.

The kids were fun and difficult, they were accepting and challenging, and they were sometimes good sports and sometimes excellent trash-talkers. Sign me up for a coaching trip to Williamsport in 2018.

Now a dose of “Suck It Up!” motivation from former Boston College and NFL linebacker Tom McManus.

 

Blame Tony Stewart (I Don’t Know)

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When I woke up this morning, I had no intention of writing a piece about auto racing and there’s a huge part of me that clearly sees the hypocrisy of even attempting such an exercise. 

I don’t like auto racing. I don’t know crap about open wheel racing, restrictor plate racing or Grand Prix events. I won’t watch NASCAR, Indy, Nationwide or Formula One. For a person who does not discriminate in my love of sports, I would rather watch a marathon of Lifetime Television, about emotionally-troubled bulimic women, than watch ten minutes of auto racing. 

But I find the personalities that make up auto racing completely engrossing. NASCAR is populated with a slew of drivers, crew chiefs and owners who are a rich source material for magazine articles, documentaries and reality television. What I find fascinating about auto racing is the characters that will abandon all thoughts of personal safety, for an adrenalizing rollercoaster ride, and the spoils that come with victory. The lucrative sponsorship deals, the interviews on ESPN, and the deluge of young and attractive women looking to spend an evening with the latest young gun on the track. 

Tony Stewart, 43, is the racer in the black hat. He is an intimidator. That has been the narrative, and that will not change after the events of Saturday night. 

Tony Stewart’s sprint car drove into fellow racer, Kevin Ward, Jr. Ward was 20. He was young, inexperienced and a competitor. Stewart wrecked Ward’s sprint car at a race in Canandaigua (NY) Motorsports Park. Visibly incensed, Ward climbed out of his car and then made his way down through race traffic to challenge Stewart’s oncoming car. In the dark of an upstate New York night, Ward’s life was ended by Stewart’s sprint car traveling approximately 35 mph on a dirt track.

Game over. There is no replay review needed. Can’t call a time out or ask for a do-over. Kevin Ward, Jr.’s life is snuffed out in the blink of an eye. 

Blame Tony Stewart. I don’t know.  

Blame Kevin Ward, Jr. I don’t know. Youth can make us lose sight of what is safe and prudent. The kid was competing, and there was no way he was going to let Mr. NASCAR drill him into a wall and not let Mr. NASCAR hear about it. The kid showed some balls and a lot of fight. As a society, we laud those traits in our sons and daughters, but was this simply the act of reckless youth immune to the inherent dangers that surrounded him on a dark, dirt track?

There are no simple answers. Auto racing is a dangerous game practiced by people with outsized ambitions and an apparent lack of fear. Tony Stewart’s love of racing – at all levels – will come under serious scrutiny. Stewart may decide he has enough of competing in the minors of racing and stay with the big boys of NASCAR. 

Will fans leave Tony Stewart or NASCAR because of Saturday night’s avoidable tragedy? Probably not. Auto racing fans understand that death is part of the gig. When a driver gets strapped in, he or she is quite aware that they are putting their life on the line. Crashes sell. NASCAR knows that. 

I’m more interested in what comes out of this. Will Stewart be vilified and made a pariah? Will the racing community politely refuse to acknowledge the recklessness of Kevin Ward, Jr.’s actions? 

This isn’t a sport for the faint of heart. One lapse of concentration or judgment, and tragedy can’t be so easily averted. Tony Stewart is going to have to wade through a crucible of suffering and introspection that could ruin his life and career; but more importantly, a young man’s life was lost.

Sprint Car Racing 

I’m From The Jeter

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On the 40th anniversary of Richard Nixon’s resignation from the presidency, Tiger Woods failed to make the cut at the PGA Championship in Valhalla, KY. August 8th is now a date that millions of Caucasians have borne witness to their core beliefs shattering.

Former New York Yankee warrior and right fielder, Paul O’Neill, gained entrance to the hallowed monument section of Yankee Stadium. To celebrate the career of The Captain, Derek Jeter, will the borough of the Bronx find itself renamed Jeter? I’m from the Jeter.

Paul O’Neill is clearly a member of the all-time Sheridan Hardball squad.

And former U.S. Treasury Secretary Paul O’Neill will not receive a plaque at Yankee Stadium nor will he receive a Christmas card from the Dark Lord Dick Cheney.

Cheney’s transplanted heart must be doing the Electric Boogaloo at the prospect of U.S. forces re-entering Iraq. Rumor has it that Cheney is a stunt double for FX’s The Strain.

Oh, and 900 writers have decided to go after Amazon and its CEO Jeff Bezos. Rootin’ for the writers. I’m praying that Amazon doesn’t employ a drone strike versus this militant faction of wordsmiths.

Not All Blowjobs in the Champagne Room

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The world keeps spinning along. We’ve got American bombs falling on ISIS forces in the political and secular quagmire called Iraq. Ebola is begging to make an appearance at your local emergency room. A 72-hour ceasefire in the Gaza Strip resumed with Israelis raining down a deluge of bombs on Hamas, and Hamas is searching for an unsuspecting Israeli soldier to snare as another prisoner of war. And the Boston Public Library has announced that it is going to winnow its book collection by 180,000 volumes to accommodate newer books and allow more space for book-free computer and study areas,

Just another lazy day in the summer. And who said the 21st century was going to be all blowjobs in the champagne room?

I’d prefer a little head from the now sexually ambiguous Bruce Jenner than getting anywhere near the Ebola virus, but the quasi-reclusive Bruce does not have to make an awkward public appearance in the champagne room.

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I listened to Dan Patrick’s interview with Lance Armstrong on The Dan Patrick Show, and I will confess to the fact that I still want to believe in the myth of Lance Armstrong and I’m not sure I care all too much that Armstrong doped and cheated. Within the sport of cycling and many other sports, cheating/the use of Performance Enhancing Drugs was common, widespread and acknowledged within the athletic community. Does anyone labor under the notion that the guys who finished behind Armstrong, in his seven Tour de France victories, were riding without any outside assistance?

Patrick allows Armstrong to speak.

I had to laugh when Armstrong reluctantly acknowledged Greg LeMond’s importance to American cycling, because the bad blood and hostility between these two cycling greats is never far from the surface. Armstrong hates LeMond. And LeMond clearly disdains Armstrong, which was captured in the ESPN 30 for 30: Slaying The Badger.

People will always have their opinions about Lance Armstrong, the Livestrong Foundation and his place in the American canon of sports, but will anyone be able to differentiate between the asshole who is Lance Armstrong and the amazing athlete who hypnotized a nation with his incredible exploits in seven Tour de France wins? The facts are the facts, but Armstrong’s particular skill at being an unadulterated asshole is half his battle at possibly restoring some of his once impeccable public image.

Armstrong was nearly solely responsible, for an American cycling boom, which found our backroads festooned with portly weekend warriors wearing the aerodynamic regalia of professional cyclists and sporting Livestrong bracelets on their wrists. Armstrong’s cycling success was a movement that impacted folks who had never heard of The Giro or The Vuelta. Personally, I find it hard to deny Armstrong’s impaxt on American society. And I desperately want to believe that Armstrong raced up the Pyrenees or Alps against rivals who were as dirty as him.

Isn’t that the nature of athletic competition? Marveling at what we could never do, unless Lance’s Italian doctor had made house calls to the States and I had been an entry in his appointment book.

Lance Armstrong

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A few days ago, American soccer icon, Landon Donovan, announced his retirement from the beautiful game at year’s end. Donovan is arguably the most accomplished player in the history of American soccer, and his departure will be a loss to Major League Soccer but not to the U.S. National Men’s Soccer team.

Men’s national coach, Jurgen Klinsmann, refused to carry Donovan on his 23-man roster for this past summer’s World Cup in Brazil. Could Donovan have helped the Americans in Brazil? Absolutely.

Klinsmann & Donovan 

The omission of Donovan from his fourth trip to the World Cup was personal on Klinsmann’s part and we can only wonder how this contributed to Donovan’s decision to hang it up. Soccer never seems to have an off-season, which is a factor in player burnout and injuries; but at the age of 32, Donovan is heading off to the Hollywood hills with his wife, the actress Bianca Kajilch.

I blame Klinsmann, especially after watching the U.S. struggle after Jozy Altidore’s hamstring injury that he suffered in the Americans’ first match versus Ghana. Donovan could have helped the U.S. but Klinsmann was looking ahead to Putin’s World Cup in 2018. Klinsmann never had any intention of flying to Brazil with Landon Donovan.

Donovan might have gotten a little satisfaction when the MLS All-Stars recently triumphed over Bayern Munich, 2-1, in Portland, Oregon.

Blutarsky

Being a proud American, I would have raised a Portland craft beer creation to salute Donovan’s game-winning strike. I then would have doused the Bayern Munich coaching staff with some shitty Beck’s after their disgraceful departure from the pitch. Neither John Belushi nor I can stand sore losin’,  punk ass Germans.

Quick Hits

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Tiger Woods may or may not play in the 2014 PGA  Championship at Valhalla. For those of you with Tiger Woods’ bobbleheads, this guy’s career is on life support. Eldrick will probably win another major, but when have you seen a golfer’s body break down so completely? The tour’s young guns have caught up to the once seemingly invincible Tiger. 

Mideast peace process? Let’s call it something else moving forward. 

Spike Lee’s Old Boy is a winner. No, I have not seen the South Korean original, but it’s on the list of soon-to-be watched films.

Spike & Tiger

Is Obama the perfect illustration of buyer’s remorse? 

Apparently Joe Biden likes to swim in the nude. 

When I swim, my current bathing suit always makes me feel the threat of nudity is one butt cheek away. I have never owned a bathing suit that is so adverse to staying on my body. 

It’s Quite Simple

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There are three words that I abhor: It’s quite simple …

If it truly is quite simple, Why the hell do you think I’m asking how is it done? 

Invariably the person will utter these words: “Uh, it’s a little more complicated than that.” 

No shit, sherlock.

A soon-to-be sixth grader would probably say, “No dip, sherlock,” but I am edgier and more provocative than any preteen. I wish someone had told me that I went through a preteen phase, or that I am still slogging through my own preteen phase, but preteens didn’t exist when Dan Pastorini quarterbacked the Houston Oilers or Lynda Carter beguiled a nation as Wonder Woman. 

Lynda Carter as Wonder Woman competing in the X Games.

I’ve digressed, But since I’m my own editor who cares. 

“It’s quite simple” never seems to add up. I drag my unhandy ass to the hardware store and I am put in the awkward position of asking an employee the most basic home improvement questions that any virile American male should know. Any guy with a toolbelt, a collection of mullet photos from 1989 and maintaining a strict adherence to the Walmart Paleo Diet should reasonably know. But I don’t. 

Mullet with a pick-up truck. No Dip Sherlock.

I get shit done, but it’s not quite textbook. I tend to nearly electrocute myself. I receive confused and strange looks from passing by pedestrians, who are either amazed at my American Ninja Warrior virtuosity with a ladder and a saw, or are simply amazed at how much of a dumb ass I am. 

When in doubt, I MacGyver it.

If there aren’t any safety glasses, I grab a pair of swimming goggles that are made for an eight-year-old and make me resemble a character from a campy sci-fi flick.

That chainsaw doesn’t work. Let’s sharpen up the Swiss Army knife and get shit done. In fact, I don’t own a Swiss Army knife but I’ve heard handy guys like to carry one around.

That tree or bush that needs to be taken down. I’ll grab a handsaw, blow up the pecs and biceps, and break that motherfucker down. 

Want a stump removed? I can handle that. Watched a YouTube video, realized that it takes no real skill but toil and sweat, and took that bitch down. I vanquished those sassy little bushes that had decided to get all grown up and become some sort of unwieldy trees. I didn’t really vanquish the thorn bush, because I paid a price every time I touched the thing without any work gloves, but it eventually cried, “No Mas.”

And now I walk around looking at shrubs that need a shearing. Lawns and flowerbeds that could use a good Brazilian waxing of their weeds. And marvel at how that house’s mulch neatly frames the perennials. 

And it’s not quite simple. 

Mullet Rock 

Unleash The Kraken

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I’m dreaming of soaring with the eagles, chasing unicorns through a field of purple clover and getting turnt up with Scrappy from Love & Hip Hop Atlanta.

Bambi & Scrappy

Urban Dictionary.com supplies this sentence for turnt up: shanay got supper turnt up at thee party last night.

I am ready to unleash thee Kraken and turnt it up:

The Sheridan Entertainment Group has been considering offers of releasing a sex tape. Would the release of a sex tape get my face on a box of Wheaties?

As a forty-seven-year-old, wiffle ball is now considered an aerobic activity.

Three games into my youth sports coaching career (See Marv Marinovich.) and I haven’t been thrown out of a game. Who says I can’t do warm and fuzzy? (Maintaining a secret desire to pull an Earl Weaver but I’ll squash that nonsense for now. Don’t unleash the Kraken!)

Watching the Red Sox toil in last place, there is a god. Larry Lucchino should be forced to blow George Steinbrenner in hell. Not that any Bronx Bombers would pass through the gates of hell.

Privately contemplating a move to Duxbury, Massachusetts, and changing my name to Benzino.

Are newspapers becoming more and more mundane or is the scope of my interests narrowing?

Drove past a pick-up truck that sported this bumper sticker, “Honk for Impeachment” I could write for days on how I hate the pinheads who drive pick-up trucks.

Was Texas Senator Ted Cruz the president of former Astro Jose Cruz “Control’s” Fan Club?

Hung out in Nordstrom’s and heard Kings of Leon being played on the in-house sound system. I’m sure that’s what KOL envisioned when they started their careers.

Hit Matt Bonner’s NBA championship party a few weeks ago at the Redhook Brewery in Portsmouth, NH. Of course Matt Bonner is no relation to party promoter, Scott Bonner. Wanted to share a glass of Barolo with Pop, but he was nowhere to be found.

Bonner – not the party promoter

Matt Bonner is the greatest hoops player in the Granite State’s history. Not sure where Boston College great, Skip Barry, fits on the list.

Green Flash Brewing Company will be opening its second brewery in Virginia Beach, Virginia. Might have to turnt it up in Virginia Beach with Mike Vick and some West Coast IPA.

Nothing better in the summer than savoring a glass of Hazy Jane from Mystic Brewery located in Chelsea, Massachusetts.

Web Hazy Jane

Never would have thought there was a ridiculously good bagels place in Chelsea, but Katz’s Bagels is legit. Reminds me of Kupel’s Bagels in Brookline, Massachusetts.

Now, I have to turnt it up with Jeff The Brotherhood.