Juice me up for the ball game

I'm glad to know that while the government is running out of money for social security and is underpaying troops who's tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan keep getting lengthened, at least they're putting valuable time and money into things that matter, such as investigating steroid use in baseball.

Is steroid use in professional sports really such a big deal that we need to have congressional hearings on the topic? Do we really need to ask Jose Canseco, a man with a body the size of a house and a head the size of a pin if he used steroids? Please, even I can answer that one for you. Of course he is.

Personally, I'm lobbying for more steroid use in baseball. It makes the game more interesting. Do you think Mark McGuire and Sammy Sosa's home run race would have been as exciting if they hadn't been on the juice? There's no way either of those guys would have been as successful without a little injection every now and then. That's why I think steroid use shouldn't just be legal in sports, it should be mandatory. Just imagine how great the game would be when every player is a power-hitter. Are you worried about the message it might send to kids? I'm not, I think it says "you can reach your dreams, sometimes it just takes a little something extra."

When the F-Bomb fails

I recently got an e-mail from someone who reads the column and asked for some advice. The letter read:

Dear Kev,

I read your blog daily, and want to know if you could help me with something. I’ve gone out with this guy a few times, and I’m not interested in dating him, but I’d like to be friends. I tried “The Rule of Five” and dropped five “F-Bombs” like you suggest , but he doesn’t seem to take the hint. Any ideas on how I can get the message across to him?

Thanks,

A Fan

Well, Fan, if he’s still not getting the hint you still have an option available, but just know once you use it, there’s no going back. The next stage is to go nuclear. That’s right, nuclear (as in the family). It’s a one shot deal that should make things painfully obvious without having to have a direct chat – simply tell him that he’s become like a brother to you (not that he’s like your brother, that will only encourage him more). Every guy understands this – it’s the dating kiss of death – but after that, there’s no way to recover.

If he still doesn’t get it after you drop the nuke, I’d suggest renting out the jumbotron at Giant’s Stadium and having the message “I’m not interested” run at half-time, because that’s what it’s going to take.

Let me know how this works – unless, of course you’re someone who’s about to use it on me – in which case that might just become an entry of its own.

Where I stand on the Terri Schiavo case

I've had dysentery in Morocco -- it's made me a firm believer in a person's right to die.

The top ten signs you should go home sick

People in my office have trouble accepting that they’re sick and should go home. Now I’m not saying I’ve been guilty of all of these, but let’s just say they’re all things people in my office have done.

You know it’s time to go home when:

10. You don’t drink tea regularly, but you switch to it for its stomach settling effect

9. You keep and use more than three kinds of medicines in your desk drawer

8. You get dizzy from scrolling down a screen

7. You refer to it as "doing shots" of Pepto

6. You schedule a meeting for noon because you know eating lunch is not something you want to do

5. Your co-workers tell you that you look like crap, and you just give them a thumbs-up and a wink

4. You decide to draft a top-ten list on signs you should go home sick as something to distract your mind from how you feel

3. You can’t wait until it’s time to go home because you dream about just climbing into bed and passing out

2. Its mid-July and you have the chills so bad that you’re in the office wearing two sweaters and a long-sleeved shirt

And the number one way you know it’s time to go home sick...

1. You leave a meeting to go throw up, and then go right back in

My favorite commentary on the 50 Cent / The Game rivalry

http://kissmyentireass.blogspot.com/2005/03/not-that-theres-anything-wrong-with.html

Lean back

I’m sorry, but the “The Rockaway” has to be, by far, the laziest dance ever created. For those not familiar with it, you simply “lean back” “lean back” lean back” and, wait for it, whatever could come next? “Lean back.” That's the whole dance. How lazy is The Terror Squad to come up with this? You don’t even lean back with your whole body – only one shoulder!

Hmm, maybe it’s designed like that on purpose so that even white boys with no rhythm (such as myself) can do it.

'Allo. Salude.

This kid is hysterical. Make sure your volume is turned up.

http://www3.ns.sympatico.ca/lyle_24/myhero.swf

This might just be the closing argument for why I don't own a Web cam. I can see it now - a few drinks too many, I come home from karaoke with some friends, and my good buddies Jose Cuervo and Jack Daniels convince me that it would be an excellent idea to create my own music video to Hey Ya and publish it on the Web.

They found me. I don’t know how, but they found me

Tonight, while cooking dinner, the phone rang and I stupidly answered without checking the caller ID first. I should have known better. They had been calling me for weeks – often hanging up when they got my answering machine, but the caller ID doesn’t lie. I know it was them – the blood donation people.

Still scared to donate blood since the last incident, I wasn’t going to be easily swayed by their pleadings. Thinking they wouldn’t ask questions, I simply told the blood donor lady, “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m not eligible.”

But that wasn’t enough for her. She was out for, well, blood. When she questioned why I was no longer eligible, I quickly grabbed one of the blood donor questionnaire forms I now keep by my bedside. I wanted a case so air tight, she couldn’t dream of poking holes in it. So I decided to shoot the moon: I told her I wasn’t eligible because I had lost weight when I was recently imprisoned in sub-Sahara Africa, where I had lots of sex with gay hookers, not to mention shared needles with the other intravenous drug users who later gave me my new tattoo.

Heh, that should show her.

But I think she was more impressed than scared by my answer. From the silence that followed I could tell she was flipping through her manual for the proper response, but was having trouble finding it. But these blood donor people just don’t take “no” for an answer. She told me they’d try again in a few months. So now that I’ve blown my load and used every excuse in the book, I need to start brainstorming ideas for when they call back. Please let me know if you have any ideas. I’m either going to have to come up with something better or go into hiding.

Kev's new favorite search engine

Gizoogle.com

Gives you google results, but translates results into gangsta speak. Worlds of fun.

Want to see Kev's Musings translated into gangsta speak?

Dress for success: dinner with the parents

So the other night I was getting ready to meet my parents for dinner, and I thought to myself, “I should dress up – look nice – show my parents how well I’m doing living on my own.”

Then a realization hit me, I should do the exact opposite and look like I’m barely scraping by. I could make it a little social experiment and see if it increases offers of food, care packages or better yet, money. So I wore what may have been my nicest dress shirt 10 years ago. Now slightly too small, just a little ripped and noticeably stained, it made me look like I had found it in a dumpster.

A nice touch with the folks, when the meal was brought out, I said to my parents, “Wow, a whole meal of food. I haven’t had that since the last time I ate with you.”

Success! I left that night with two bags of groceries, some cleaning products for my apartment, and a gift certificate to Banana Republic. I’m going shopping tomorrow at a thrift store to see if I can find an even better outfit for the next time I eat with them.

The six worst words you can hear

The other night, when having coffee with a buddy of mine, we got into a debate over the six worst words you can hear.

My friend thinks that “honey, where is this relationship going?” is as bad as it gets. Personally, I think there’s nothing worse than hearing “next, on a very special Moesha.”

Kev's review of new Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper

I am, self-admittedly, a fan of Dr. Pepper. When the new Diet Dr. Pepper, the one that tastes more like regular Dr. Pepper, came out, it was a day to remember. So when I heard last week that they were launching a new flavor – Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper, you can imagine the excitement I felt. I like Dr. Pepper, I like cherry. I like vanilla. I couldn’t be more excited about a soda. So today, when I finally saw one at Duane Reade, I had to pick it up.

Even before I could twist off the cap and let the cherry vanilla goodness flow to my lips, I noticed something. A little logo sits next to the label that reads "fountain classic." Led me to wonder, can you be new and a classic at the same time? It strikes me as a little bit odd. I really feel like you need to have been on the market for awhile to earn the title "classic." A week simply doesn’t cut it.

So my review of Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper? Do you remember Pixie Sticks from your childhood – the straight sugar, yet flavored candy that came in a straw? Well, tastes like someone just dissolved a large cherry pixie stick into a bottle of Dr. Pepper. Also, something really bothers me about the fact that the foam is red. I’ve yet to ever see a soda with red foam. That just can’t be good.

What I do after a night of partying

Last summer my friend Brad, the opera singer, was leaving New York to perform in Rome for the summer. To celebrate an occasion of such magnitude, we did what any group of twenty-something guys would do: we threw a party at a local bar.

On top of the cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon (because, yes, we are that classy) we ordered drinks with names like “Garbage Can,” “Irish Car Bomb” and “Swamp Water.” Many of these came in containers like fishbowls or actual garbage cans, and often contained multiple straws and were passed around the party. Some were even lit on fire before handed to us – which is always such a good idea – handing open flames to drunken people. Needless to say no one can agree on how or when the evening ended.

When I awoke the next morning, in the clothing I had gone out wearing and rather hung-over, I made my way into the living room to check my email. That’s where I found my cousin, who was not at the party, asleep on my couch. Trying to be quiet I logged onto my computer, and that’s when I found it – a receipt from Amazon.com. Apparently, when I came home, I decided that, in my drunken sleepy state, and despite my cousin asleep three feet from the computer, that my life was missing a Foreman Grill. And I had to order it then and there. I guess it could be worse when out drinking: some people get into fights, some go home with strangers. Me? I shop.

In my own defense, its still one of the best purchases I’ve ever made.

First date in a box

So the other night, when out with the guys, one of my buddies asked for a good restaurant to take a first date. Immediately, and without pause, we all threw out recommendations, which led to a conversations about first dates. From the conversation I learned something interesting – all guys have a pre-canned first date. Oh, I’m not just talking about a place to take someone, but an entire evening, complete with talking points and subject matters they want to cover to illustrate them in a certain light.

Without mentioning names, a date with one of my buddies starts at an Ethiopian restaurant and always includes mention of post-modern feminist thought. Another buddy hits the Hungarian pastry shop and brings up classical literature and 19th century poetry. Yet another is a frequenter of a martini lounge near his office and is always sure to bring up the colors of the Tuscan sunset. It’s made me realize that, much like a play, first dates almost always seem spontaneous, but in reality, are actually well rehearsed productions.

And each of these dates illustrate the guy in a particular way. Ethiopian restaurant man prides himself on being a feminist. Hungarian pastry shop dude studied the classics and is well read. Martini lounge guy? Well, uh, we think he’s straight but aren’t completely sure.

So what’s a first date with Kevin like? Well, I don’t want to ruin the surprise for any potentially interested ladies out there, but let’s just say if midget Jell-o wrestling and conversations on finger-painting techniques of the 18th century aren't your thing, you may not want to apply.

Karma and I aren't on speaking terms right now

After a night of working past midnight and seeing how slushy it is outside after yesterday's snow, I decided to be a rebel this morning and come to work in jeans and sneakers. Didn't even wear a belt. All was fine until I received an email about fifteen minutes ago saying my client is now coming in this afternoon instead of tomorrow.

I foresee a trip to Banana Republic in my near future, and not in that good way...