ChapStick is out to get me.  Not the company that manufactures the sneaky little suckers, Pfizer Consumer Healthcare.  The actual tubes of lip balm themselves.  All of them.  And not just the ChapStick brand.  Every brand.  All of them.  At this very moment, the 40 or 50 tubes of lip balm I’ve purchased over the past year are all hiding.  Snickering with their own little smirky lips, giving off a faint whiff of nothing, vanilla, strawberry, coconut, whatever.  I can feel their beady little eyes on me.  They would rather waste away to nothing — evaporate, if that is even physically possible — than stay in my pocket or within my arms’ reach.

Sonsabitches.

The ChapStick addiction has been handed down in my family from generation to generation.  From my father to me, from me to my own sons.  I suspect that the lip balm lineage goes father back up my line, too.  Turns out a physician and “pharmacological thinker” named Dr. Charles Browne Fleet invented ChapStick in the 1880s. The original product looked like a wickless candle wrapped in tin foil.  I wish it was still wrapped in tin foil.  That way the little bastards would be easier to find.  I’d see a glint of reflected sunlight in the backyard and then pounce on the wayward balm.  I’d notice that the telltale sting of foil pressing against my leg from within my pants pocket was suddenly missed.  Then I’d search furiously my immediate vicinity.  Recruit my family members to cast a broader net for capture.  Hell, I’d even press complete strangers into service on the city streets if it meant catching an errant ChapStick before I lost another one.  I’d happily channel Tommy Lee Jones’ The Fugitive sheriff character if it meant I’d hang onto one more tube just a little bit longer.  And unlike Sheriff Tommy, I’d control the situation and pull the trigger before letting my lip balm jump off the waterfall.  If I can’t have it smeared on my lips, then no one can have it smeared on his or her lips. It’s like that.

I mean, look at Mr. Jones (Mr. Lee Jones?) here.  The man has lost control of the situation.  And look at his lips.  Chapped! Not me.

I am not picky.  When I finally give in and purchase a new lip balm unit, I am mindful of the planet and my place on it.  I delicately pull the tube from the shelf. Ensure words like “organic,” “cage-free,” “really freakin’ good for you,” and such, are printed somewhere on the packaging.  I hand it to the cashier with a puffed out chest and self-righteous air (me, not the clerk. I won’t stand for that kind of attitude from my cashier).  I watch the $17 disappear from my bank account with the swipe of my red plastic card. 

And then the high-end piece of wax is gone.  Just. gone.

Faced with dried up lips, I will scavenge.  Overturning hampers holding my sons’ filthy clothes, hoping to find a stick in one of their pockets.  Digging to the bottom of our cars’ center consoles.  Pushing through the cracker crumbs, dog treat remnants, and half-melted pieces of gum.  Go ahead, get yourself deep under my fingernails.  My lips are burning.  I don’t care.  I’d thrust my fist into a bucket of needles right now.  Bring it.

In these dire circumstances, you see, I will resort to just about anything to sooth the savage beast.  Cake-battered flavor lip balm bearing a logo of some young girl in a bonnet? Manna from heaven. A drop of olive oil — at least I hope it was olive oil — found on the kitchen counter?  Don’t judge. My wife’s lip balm (OK, I admit it may have nudged closer down the spectrum towards actual lipstick)? Jergens yellowish hand lotion in one of those big bottles?  Let me tell you something: You don’t need to threaten my dog, just hand me the lotion.  Yes, it puts the lotion on.  I will put the lotion on.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.  I am no longer that smug yuppie at the Whole Foods.  I am reduced, essentially, to dumpster-diving my way to healthier lips.

I’d love to keep typing here, but my mouth has run dry, my lips are starting to sting, and there isn’t a ChapStick to be found.  There must be something around here that will do the trick….

Thanks for reading.

It’s over before it even began.

Today the reigning World Champion San Francisco Giants will hold a presumably lavish pregame ceremony befitting the, um, reigning World Champions.  There will be flag-hoisting, tear-jerking speeches, doling out of heavy and bejeweled rings, and lots of palm-stinging clapping at AT&T park this afternoon. 

I’d like to get excited about that.  I really would.  But I just can’t.

First, the Giants won the World Series back in October, like 6 months ago. We already had a big parade all over the place with podium-pounding pronouncements from elected and appointed officials after a conga line of cable cars.  At least I think it was cable cars.  The ticker tape parades have all begun to blend together.  I may be conflating one with the others.  (See what I did there?). 

Second, the Giants are off to a pretty unimpressive start this year.  And by the way, yes, the season has already begun. We are two uninspiring road trips deep.  And before that there was the spring training season.  All of which was dutifully covered ad nauseum.  I have the MLB 2015 “At Bat” iPhone app alerts to prove it.  At this point, 7 games into the season, our beloved home team has lost more games than it has won.  We sit alone at the bottom of our division. 

Third, we are a motley crew.  One of our best players has a busted arm and is on the DL.  A replacement for one of our former best players (now with the Red Sox) has kicked the ball around the infield like a Little Leaguer.  I cringe when the ball is hit in his direction, grinding my molars at how far up into the stands he will chuck the baseball.   But at least I can avoid having to cringe for a couple games, since he too is on the DL.  Groin, knee, hammy, whatever.  He took an unproductive and seemingly innocuous swing, and next thing you know he is genuflecting or Tebowing maybe three feet up the first base line. Not impressive. 

Our presumptive starting first baseman — he of the sweet swing — has already been on the DL with a groin.  I mean with a pulled groin.  I suppose all of our players have groins.  But our first baseman is the only player thusfar who has managed to pull his and miss a couple games.  No doubt there will be many pulled groins this season.  We should check with the people at Guiness (the book, not the beer) to ascertain the modern day record regarding pulled groins in a single season.  I feel really really good about our chances in this category.  Maybe I’ll even commission a new screen-printed tee shirt in anticipation of our new world record.  I think the “San Francisco Groints,” in the proper font and color scheme, would be a big hit on the sidewalks outside the ballpark. 

Our starting pitcher of Ruthian proportions (both throwing the ball and hitting the ball) threw batting practice the other day.  Only it was during a real game.  The Comcast Sports Net people must have breathed a sigh of relief that they ultimately didn’t need to figure out a way to add a third column in their graphics package as the Padres seemingly approached 100 hits in said game.

Another pitcher of ours who once threw a perfect game my family and I witnessed first-hand — his is now a creaky arm.  Bone chips removed in the off season from his elbow.  Don’t think he’ll be chucking baseballs through a pizza box on Youtube anytime soon, let alone pitching perfect games. Another of our pitchers has suffered of late with a “dead arm,” then a “dead back.”  He gave up a gut-punching grand slam the other day.  To a player who hit his first career grand slam.  At 37 years old.  With something like 300,000 previous at-bats without hitting a home run.  I’m exaggerating slightly here.  But only slightly.

Our backup catcher nearly had his arm Barbie-Dolled right out of his shoulder socket during a play at the plate a game or two ago.  A little while later, an opposing player dropped his bat head on the catcher’s skull whilst our catcher was not wearing his helmet.  Inadvertent, mind you, but something that just never happens.  At least I’ve never seen a Barbie Doll-Arm Wrench-Followed-by-Bat-to-Skull sequence before. 

None of this stuff bodes well.  It’s simply bad juju.  No bueno.  So at this point in the season — 4% of the way through — I’m officially throwing in the towel. 

Bring on 2016!

Thanks for reading.



Yesterday morning I found myself unwillingly cast as the damsel-in-distress in a Charlie Chaplin-era black and white. 

Six a.m. found me hunched over in the pre-dawn darkness, stuck in the middle of Fillmore Street — a busy thoroughfare in my neighborhood. Desperately attempting to complete a mission-critical task, alternating with panicked glances up and into the oncoming traffic. 

Finish the job. Get hit by a Prius. Finish the job. Get hit by a MUNI bus. I knew exactly how the silent film actress in the image above must have felt. 

True, I did not suffer under the duress of a sledgehammer-wielding, bushy-eyebrowed villain. Nor from the constraints of heavy chains. Nor from the menace of 3 bad guys with really really good hatmakers. 

My situation was far more dire. 

My black labbish “puppy” had selected this precarious spot to execute her morning constitution. Nevermind the overabundance of safe venues in the immediate vicinity: empty driveways, sparse sidewalks, even a briefcase-sized patch of grass here and there. An embarrassment of riches as far as morning constitution-ready locales go. 

Instead, she strikes the unmistakable pose mid-street, mid-stride. Full exploiting the element of awful surprise on her “master.” Once she has achieved the squat, there is no moving her. That would only exacerbate the situation, as I dragged a 70-pound statue shedding smaller pieces of statue across a wider field array. 

Nope. Not an option. I’m just going to have to commit to this and make the best of it. 

Fumbling with the lightweight plastic poop bag dispenser velcro’d to the people end of her leash. Careful to avoid the continuous blue bag spool spooling out onto the street. Desperately thumbing with numb fingers in darkness over the flat sheet of bags, searching for the perforation. And then once perforated, anxiously probing both ends of the still-flat, seemingly vacuum-packed bag. Distinguishing between the open end where one’s hand gets inserted, and the sealed end that must remain sealed is absolutely critical. Botch that and you’re in for an uncomfortable walk home with contaminated fingers outstretched. 

And all the while, the train is barreling down the tracks. I feel it coming, ready to roll over me, and my animal. any moment now. 

Wailea has finished her part by this point, and now it is my turn in the process. Assembly-line perfection. But with an electric bus bearing down on us imminently. Skittish, I have to dart back to the spot on the street more than once, looking like I’m delicately handling molten lava.  Hot! Hot! Or maybe my manic efforts to finish the job bear resemblance to the “Ickey Shuffle” (without the “cold cuts today!” celebratory yells). No celebration, this. 

The deed is done, at last. I sprint away and yank the dog’s collar, just a split second before….

Nothing. No MUNI bus. No silver little Prius. No black smoke-spewing locomotive. No wild-eyed bandits poised to pound my noggin with a ball-peen hammer. No rusty chains around my ankles. Just a blue plastic bag full of poop and an overactive imagination. In other words, another Monday morning start to the week. 

Thanks for reading. 

Actually, it turns out I didn’t. But for some reason, I thought I did, and I’ve been telling anyone and everyone that it was I who shot the sheriff. Moreover, I did not and do not deny also shooting the deputy. No one ever asked me about the deputy. But I have been, and remain, prepared to admit–nay, boast–about my central role in the deputy’s demise.

Man, I like Brian Williams. Always have. Same way I like Tom Brokaw. Tom gave the commencement address at my undergraduate institution nearly 25 years ago. I remember at one point he proclaimed that beer counted as “food.”

Then, he hoisted me above his head, grabbing me by my knees and neck. The assembled throngs at Wally Wade Stadium went absolutely wild. From my prone and sideways position, I spied a rabid, fanged javelina and dispensed with it by hurling a Swiss Army Knife through its eye socket at 250 paces. And the entire Duke community–undergraduates, graduates, and Tom Brokaw–all enjoyed a spectacular feast of boar that evening. And Coach K. All of us.

Yep, that is exactly how it happened. Ask anyone.

Wait a minute, on second thought, I may actually have imagined everything after the “food = beer” remark. I don’t know how I managed to conflate a stack of triangular finger sandwiches with a wild boar.

That I ripped asunder! With my bare hands! Putting its gristled skull on my head like a crown! Yeah, a crown. And the masses proclaimed me “King.” Of everything. And I appointed Coach K as my Sergeant-at-Arms. Ask anyone.

Oh gosh, I seem to have done it again. Forgive me.

Yeah, so I like Brian Williams. I like that he often returns to his anchor chair after a vacation with obvious tan marks from his sunglasses. I like that his face is imperfect, a little crooked. Maybe he broke his nose once and it wasn’t quite fixed back to the way it was. I like his straight-forward delivery, and the way he doesn’t seem to emphasize certain words a certain way and at a certain cadence the way every other journalist SEEMS…to…DO. The way Adam West’s Batman did. I don’t like that. Brian Williams doesn’t talk like that.

So I’m inclined to cut Bee Dub some slack. (No that is not his nickname, I just made it up, but I like this nickname too.) The dude made a mistake. Remembered something in such a way as to have someone else’s halo appear over his own head. This is not an admirable thing to do. And I’m not advocating stealing someone else’s thunder this way. But of all the potential transgressions perpetrated by people the rest of us watch on TV or on movie screens or on iPad screens, a tale of false bravado seems trivial.

Which reminds me of an epic wild boar feast back in 1990….

Thanks for reading.