Stabbone and McGraw

I Am the Blob!

2012-01-24T19:57:00.001-05:00

As a parent, it's written into my very soul that I must worry about my progeny. What do I worry about most? Monsters, of course! Also the future. Sometimes the two terrors merge to form that most beastly of specimens...

The Future Blob!

I owe my every success in life to that greenish-brown blob, including my $5.15 lifetime average hourly salary. Without him prowling around my Saturday morning cartoons, I simply don't know where I'd be today.

And speaking of blobs, here's one from the past, ca. 1975:

Jabba the Nate

Good thing I married a babe and can breed some of the ugly out of my lineage.

nwb

RIP, Shot Glass

2012-01-21T15:18:00.000-05:00

Here lay the jagged remains of my one and only shot glass--the only shot glass I've ever owned. The shattered vessel depicts the Großglockner, the highest peak of the Austrian alps. My old friend Susie brought it back to me from a trip to Europe she made in 1996. From this prized souvenir I sipped whiskey and rum. Occasionally, I put it to use when enjoying a boilermaker, but no more. I loved my shot glass. I loved its shape and heft. I loved that it had a gold rim and a little handle. You could say this shot glass inspired me to make my own trip to Austria, where I studied abroad in 1997. I've spent the past week reflecting on the millions of gallons of booze I've ingested, shot by shot, through the years. My shot glass was special. I won't go into the details of how it met its end; for me the pain is too near the surface. Suffice to say it had an unfortunate encounter with my sometimes-careless wife.

My shot glass would have turned 16 this year. Now it's gone. Why do the good have to die so young?

Also, what the hell am I going to do with all this rum?

Sue, if you get this message, I'm going to need you to swing by Austria when you get a sec.

K?

Thanks!

nwb

Postmodern as Fuck

2012-01-19T20:46:00.001-05:00

Nothing better than sitting back with the kid and enjoying a classic from the steaming bowels of the West Coast comic underground.

The McBonerito has little use for the mainstream. If he's not busy gumming the corners of some socialist pamphlet, you can probably find him at a local Occupy movement telling Wall Street where to stick it.

Owl and Other Comics available wherever Falling Rock Comics are sold.

Howl getup compliments of our resident Musicologist and Generationalist.

Naropa tee by Art and Lemons.

nwb

Can't Be President, Mitt

2012-01-18T00:34:00.000-05:00

I'm weighing in on this "bitter politics of envy" thing late, but in light of MLK Day, when equality should be foremost on our minds, it seems appropriate to comment on a guy who has more than just about anyone.

Mind I have nothing against being rich. Nothing. Might not mind having a load of green myself one day. What I cannot abide, though, is the likes of Mitt Romney, a rich dude who presumes to have what it takes to lead a nation of 300 million, telling me that, because I see a problem when the tiniest fraction of a sliver of a micropercentage of a population controls 25% of a nation's wealth, I'm engaging in the politics of envy. Asshole!

Trust me, Mitt, I don't envy you. I don't envy your creepy good looks. I don't envy your business acumen or your Harvard degree or your triumphs at Bain Capital. And I'm certainly not jealous of your gobs of cash, or I would never have set my sights on an English degree from Ohio U. Perhaps I assume too much, but I think it's true that most regular folks don't waste much time on envy. Instead of entertaining delusions of fabulous wealth (aside from a weekly lotto ticket, perhaps), I think most people are figuring out how to pay the bills from month to month. That gets harder to do as real wages shrink and people like you get richer. Can you blame average working Americans for getting a little bent out of shape when they pay, by your own admission, a much higher tax rate than you do? Doesn't it bother you that, when your money is earning you money, there are plenty of working people have to apply for food stamps?

Equality--I know you don't care. Just please don't mistake our laments for envy. Doing so only shows how out of touch you are with basically everyone, and underscores how utterly unqualified you are to be president of this country.

Or to put it less eloquently than Dr. King would: Go fuck yourself.

nwb

Let's Go Cleveland!

2012-01-15T22:21:00.000-05:00

I have no plans to impose my political or religious beliefs on my progeny. As far as I'm concerned, the kid needs to learn to think for himself. BUT, by golly, that doesn't mean the McBonerito is going to be brought up without certain values. By the time he is four years old, I expect my son will to be able to answer me these questions three:

1) What is Rocky Colavito's middle name?

2) What does Bingo! signify in Cleveland lore?

3) Who rushed for 188 yards on 11 carries against the Pittsburgh Steelers in 1950?

A warning to the lad--a single cheer for any of the following will result in exile:

Yankees
Steelers
Celtics
Red Sox
Lakers
Cowboys
Ravens
Broncos
Knicks
LeBron James

Remember kid, your name is written into the family bible in pencil.

Let's go Cleveland!

nwb

1) Domenico 2) Bobby "Bingo" Smith 3) Marion Motley

The McBone Birdwatching Journal; 1/8/12

2012-01-08T17:11:00.000-05:00

It was a looong work week, McBoners, and a looong work week lay ahead. In the meantime, I deserve this chilled-out moment. Sunday's light is waning. The McBonerito is cheerfully suckling. I've quaffed a perfect Manhattan on the rocks. An estouffade de boeuf is cooking slowly in the oven. Decent bird day too. Not even a half dozen or so squirrels stalking the feeders can get me down.

Birds sighted:

Chickadee
White-breasted nuthatch
Tufted titmouse
House finch
House sparrow
Goldfinch
Red-bellied woodpecker
Downy woodpecker
Junco
Cardinal
Carolina wren
Mourning dove
Crow

Now all we need is the Cavs to beat the Blazers.

Happy Sunday!

nwb

The Dem Has the Better Hair

2012-01-05T23:47:00.002-05:00

I hate this man. Yes, hate. I hate him with a pure, unfiltered, sometimes exhilarating hate. I hate everything about him, from his phony conservatism to his ad-nauseum professions of faith to his unabashed bigotry to his corn-fed, milk-drinking, ultra-fake nice guy grin. But what I hate most about this backward thinking corporate shill is his all-too-wholesome fucking haircut, because everything former senator Santorum stands for is encapsulated in that hopelessly white conservative male coiffe. I can see him reclining comfortably, bashing libs, gays and welfare queens while his nodding barber snips and trims, molding something that on TV will appear so fiercely American, male and straight, straight, straight.

We've seen this phenomenon before in our recent past.

Yes, one is a Pennsylvanian presidential hopeful and the other a governor from Wisconsin, but clearly this is the work of the same foul, two-bit, right wing, bootstrapping, God-fearing barber from deep the heart of Middle America. No, we are not fooled by alternating side parts.

Gentlemen! God in his divine mercy will not punish you for sporting a bit of sideburn.

The Republican Party: sensibly groomed, devotedly uncool, fully committed to evil.

Obama 2012.

nwb

Happy New Year from McBone!

2011-12-31T18:17:00.001-05:00

With 2011 come and gone, another mayonnaise-free year is in the books. Cleveland still didn't win a championship, but we have other milestones of significance to look back upon. In the year's waning moments, please enjoy this photo of Stabbone and McGraw sipping on nature's most perfect drink: a dry martini on the rocks with a twist of lemon and three olives.

Happy New Year, McBoners one and all.

nwb and jab

Happy Holidays from McBone!

2011-12-27T13:35:00.000-05:00

No trip to Akron would be complete without a trip to Swensons, the official hamburger of McBone. Here is a picture of me devouring a cheeseburger with everything (pickle, mustard, onion). Also please notice my Teamsters local 348 hoodie, indicating McBone's support of organized labor. This sweatshirt flies right in the face of governor Kasich and everything he and gang of anti-labor thugs stand for.

Not pictured: fries, onion rings, sometimes-popular wife

Let me take this opportunity to say happy holidays to everyone. Everyone except for you, John Kasich. To you I can offer only my sincerest 'bah, humbug!' this holiday season.

nwb

McBone Presents the 2010-2011 Aunt and Uncle Standings

2011-12-24T17:52:00.002-05:00

Another year shot to hell, another chance to evaluate aunts and uncles. Before putting the family under the microscope, I would like to send them a general note of thanks for the many kindnesses bestowed this year upon me, my sometimes-popular wife, and of course the McBonerito. Though we are blessed and the generosity was overwhelming, it did not preclude some seriously awful aunting and uncling.

Let us then visit the rogues gallery.

Aunts

1. Denise - The first-time winner waltzed to victory after acing the Q and A portion of of competition.

2. Susan G - The self-described "Santorum Republican" got hooked on medical pot (glaucoma), shed her former identity, embraced socialism, hit the Occupy movement and spun this hempen sweater for the McBonerito:

¡Viva la McBonolución!

3. Gail - The 'Madonna of Aunts' could not reinvent her way to victory.

4. Susan J - Good year of aunting undone by communicating pinkeye to entire family.

5. Fay - Snorted away last year's championship purse.

6. Ann - Sucked this year in a general sense.

Uncles

1. Ed - The first-time winner waltzed to victory after acing the Q and A portion of the competition.

2. Pete - Controversial runner up accused by rivals of using Putin-like thuggery and Rasputin-like charm.

3. Al - Slowed by ringworm.

4. Jeff - Knocked down several spots after Tweeting a picture of his wiener.

5. Don S (no longer in family) - Our own Kris Humphries was last seen working the drive-through at Hamburger Station. Neglected to ask if I wanted fries with that.

6. Glen - His insistence that Art Modell and LeBron James are 'misunderstood' does not hold with McBone family values.

7. Don H - Was poised to end his drought until overheard commenting that Michele Bachmann is a 'hottie' who has 'some good ideas.'

Past Results

2010-2011
2009-2010
2008-2009
2007-2008

nwb

First Thoughts on Fatherhood

2011-12-10T00:40:00.001-05:00

We're a little over a month in to this thing, so I thought I'd slap a few observations about fatherhood and the kid on this ol' non-baby blog.

The kid seems happy in a general sense. Things do piss him off from time to time (Christmas music. Mitch McConnell), but overall his disposition is sunny.

He is like a woodpecker, the way he constantly pecks at my flat, barren chest.

My green fleece has become the uniform of fatherhood. I wear it every day. Every manner of baby-related crud is embedded in its fibers.

Humming phrases of Beethoven soothes the little beast in his most dyspeptic moods. The morbid fellow favors the funeral marches of symphonies #3 and 7.

Cloth diapers ain't what they used to be. The particularly high tech model we use, an amalgam of elastic, snaps and cotton inserts, is probably the MacBook of baby waste absorption systems. Nothing gets through these suckers. Except piss and shit.

The kid is an artist with his fecal matter. He has decorated walls with a Pollockian mastery. Must invest in canvas, take aim and get rich.

Breast-fed baby shit is tolerably innocuous. Compared to its immediate antecedent, meconium, it is lovely, mustardy, wonderful stuff. Meconium is surely what I will be scraping off the surfaces of hell when I am condemned.

The tit is his lodestar. All else is intrigue.

The crying does not bother me, luckily. Luckily, the kid doesn't cry much. I'm not sure why I feel so calm about things. Perhaps being a 36-year-old first-time father has me better prepared than the 26-year-old or 16-year-old McGraw would have been.

The crusty, dried-out, raisin-like umbilical stump fell off early. Not sorry to see the thing go. Any parent feeling an urge to keep it for posterity needs to maybe dial down the sentimentalism, in my opinion. My sometimes-popular wife sacrificed it to the fire gods, which seemed a noble and proper end for the defunct feeding tube.

His limbs flail in disharmony. Each is governed by its own impulse. None works with the other. The orb mounted upon his neck flops and bobs in an particular display of gracelessness. At times it crashes down with a force that seems bent on shattering my jaw.

Cars, once a mere nuisance on my way to and from work, have become baby-seeking missiles intent on one thing only: find and destroy William.

Breast milk tastes good. Yes, I went there. No, you cannot have some.*

His slate-colored eyes stare into vast distances. At what he gazes, I know not. Sometimes he simply appears to be marveling at the ceiling. Like, How the hell does that thing stay up?

Sleep has become the most precious resource, better than food, water and air combined. The first time getting a solid 5-hour block was like being dipped into the purifying, crystalline waters of some sacred, mystic pool of the high Himalayas.

Fatigue has made me loopy. Things I am not fully aware of at any given time:

The time of day
The day of week
Where I work
My full name
The login credentials for this blog. Yes, this explains my long absence.

The kid likes being held. I like holding him. One adapts quickly. I have become very adept at making martinis with one hand.

Nothing elicits more contrary opinions than child rearing. My one bit of advice to new parents: keep your worries and concerns away from the internet.

Go ahead, read every book in the universe. Nothing can prepare you.

What a clever trick, that such an amorphous, squishy, screaming, shitting, parasitic little thing can make us love it so much. He has urinated on me enough that I have begun to suspect it is intentional, and yet **sappiness alert** I do love him, with an almost crippling desperation. Going to work has become a daily torment. Coming home redeems me five times weekly.

nwb

*Until FDA approved.

Moustachioed Stabbone

2011-12-05T07:02:00.000-05:00

Gentle McBoners,

I know there hasn't been much activity here in the McBoniverse lately. Sorry about that. As a sleep-deprived parent, I think I am well within my rights in blaming the kid, so let's go ahead and do that. When you've got a scapegoat that hasn't learned to talk yet, you gotta take advantage.

I promise an abundance of words in the coming days, so you can give the refresh button a rest for the time being. To tide you over, here's a picture of my idiot brother Stabbone's 2nd place moustache, which came by to visit him this lonely November.

nwb

Thanks

2011-11-24T09:14:00.001-05:00

nwb

The McBone Birdwatching Journal; X-Rated Edition

2011-11-20T12:16:00.001-05:00

So I'm just sitting there on the sofa with the kiddo and wife watching the birds do their feeding thing when I spied a gray squirrel humping another gray squirrel right in the middle of the yard. I thought, Well now that's a fine display, ladies and gentlemen. I mean, after all there are children here. Then, just as I was charging outside to break up the party, they went and pulled the old switcheroo on me. Suddenly, the squirrel on the receiving end started humping the humper. I paused and found myself wondering if this was a choice, or were they born that way? And what do various religions have to say about gay squirrels? And are there any squirrel sodomy laws on the books that I'm unaware of?

Male, female, gay, straight--whatever the case, they have this whole great big private oak tree they could be using.

Anyways:

Birds sighted

Cardinal
Chickadee
Tufted titmouse
White breasted nuthatch
Carolina wren
Junco
House sparrow--about a million
House finch
Goldfinch
Mourning dove
Downy woodpecker
Hairy woodpecker

nwb

Dear Son

2011-11-17T16:50:00.001-05:00

Dear son,

More than a mere father, I am a fortune-teller of sorts, a clairvoyant, a soothsayer, a prophet. As such, I offer you a brief glimpse into your future:

Enjoy this grace period while it lasts. Training begins in four years.

'It is,' as one father famously said to his son, 'your destiny.'

Love,

Dad

nwb

Presenting the McBonerito

2011-11-13T11:32:00.000-05:00

My sometimes-popular wife is pregnant no longer. From her bountiful womb has sprung the composite of sperm n' eggs and 2.3 million years of evolution:

13 years in the making.

Official Baby Statistics (McBone certified)

Weight: 8 lb. 4 oz.
Length: 21 in.
Time of birth: 8:43 PM, 11/6/11
Species: Homo sapien
Sex: decidedly♂

The name William Miguel was not suddenly struck upon. Years of planning lay behind this moniker:

William: my paternal grandfather, Firestone chemist who made wine, drank martinis, listened to Jelly Roll Morton and was my hero.

Vilhelm: wife's maternal grandfather. Danish-born engineer, inventor and lover of life. Immigrated to Venezuela in the 1930s and fell for one of the locals.

Miguel: wife's father, affectionately called 'Michael' by his family.

Michael: my father, affectionately called 'Miguel' by his father.

The plan was an all-natural, surgery-free birth. Nine months of preparations brought her fully contracting to our beautiful birthing suite at the new Clarian hospital in Lafayette. The birthing pool awaited us, as did our midwife. Grandparents were on hand. So was Doula. We were ready.

All was going as scripted, until she stepped into the pool and the time came to push. Though she pushed with all her might, the kid would simply not come through the chute. The midwife determined that he was turned the wrong way, and a sliver of cervix would not dilate.

Measures were taken: different birthing positions. Pitocin to ramp up the contractions and get the kid turned. A last resort epidural to prolong things, soften the pain, loosen things up. The kid, stubborn in the way his mother can be stubborn, would not budge. And why should he? His mom had been so good to him in pregnancy, singing songs in Spanish and setting modern day records for ingestion:

Milk: 50,000 gallons
Orange juice: 40,000 gallons
Protein: 5 billion grams
Calcium: Enough for 100 baby skeletons

Through it all, our parents kept us calm. Doula was there to spell me, keep us hydrated, whatever we needed. My father-in-law, the doctor, was invaluable when things got confusing and scary. No matter what happened, he kept reminding us that the kid's heart was beating and strong.

And when, after 16 hours of labor, after attempting to birth this kid in every possible way, after enduring contraction after crippling contraction, after finally reconciling herself to the operating table and the C-section she wanted so badly not to have, when after all of this she looked up at me and said 'I'm sorry,' as if this decision represented some kind of failure on her part, that was the moment my heart was atomized, sucked into the hospital's ventilation system and scattered irretrievably in a billion particles. I must endeavor to grow a new heart worthy of this incredible woman.

She was wheeled to the OR and I outfitted with disposable scrubs. When the time finally came, I peeked over the curtain separating me and her head from the proceedings down below. There can be no more surreal a sight than a physician's arms deep in my wife's abdomen, groping for an unborn child.

And there is no surge of euphoria comparable to seeing a head emerge from the womb, cough up some goo and unleash that first phlegmatic howl. Here are some early visual impressions that have stuck with me:

purple
mushy
wrinkled
squirming
coneheaded
confused
Edward G. Robinson

He cried as technicians cleaned him up, but he calmed when I said his name. Perhaps he knew my voice from those daily, post dinner conversations we had.

The wife was sewn up and handed her child. He took at once to the breast, feeding as greedily as he had a right to.

Mmm...colostrum!

William Miguel is one week old today. To this blinded parent, he is, of course, handsome, brilliant, and defect-free.

Though this is by no means a baby blog, you haven't seen the last of the McBonerito.

Photos next.

nwb

Happy 30th

2011-11-05T17:46:00.003-05:00

Dear Friends that are turning 30 this year....

The first 30 years of our lives were undeniable amazing. Our family has an unbreakable bond that is full of incredible memories and lifelong friendships.

So I'm dedicating my first Christmas Ale of the year to you guys. Our 30's will be our best years yet!

Cheers! I love you guys.

jab

The Moustache Will Return For MOVEMBER

2011-11-04T17:33:00.001-05:00

The Moustache. It has certainly been a hot topic on Mcbone over the past few years. This blog has immortalized the mustache in many different posts, and even in a specific blog dedicated to mustaches only. We love them, we're mesmerized by them. Sometimes jokingly, but most often we are truly in awe of such a spectacular miracle of life. Some may recall a moustache contest between my brother and I, which is still under heavy investigation by the National Moustache Association, or NMA as we affectionately call it.

But today The Moustache takes on an entirely new meaning. November is Men's Health Awareness Month. The Lake Erie Monsters are supporting that cause by backing a campaign called "Movember". Movember is a global movement that goes on across the entire world during November. Men all over the globe grow out their moustaches with the purpose of raising awareness for men's health. More specifically much of the money raised is used for prostate cancer research and other cancers that directly affect men.

It is a tremendous movement that prompts conversation among men and women about topics that often go overlooked. The "Mo's" are then put on display and used to raise funds that can help fight prostate and other cancers. So much attention has been given to the women's health movement that unfortunately the men have fallen behind. We need to change our habits and live healthier lives.

Cleveland's Lake Erie Monsters will be supporting this cause all month by posting our players photos at http://www.lakeeriemonsters.com/ and allowing fans to donate money. They can simply choose which player they feel has the best moustache and donate funds in their name which will be directly donated to men's health initiatives. Then, on Friday, November 25th at the Monsters game we will be hosting our "Movember" night and passing out moustaches to the first 5,000 fans. Again all in an effort to do our part in raising awareness.

SO.....Yes you guessed it. My moustache will also be making it's triumphant, or maybe not so triumphant return. However you want to look at it. I put together an official site where you can read everything you need to know about Movember and track all of my progress. Obviously this is where you would also donate to me and also donate to my team. Whether you donate or not is up to you, but I highly encourage you to follow along and pass on to the men in your life. This movement truly is meaningful, and I hope that you will enjoy the journey with me. I'm dedicating my Movember moustache to all of the family and friends in my life that have been touched by cancer.

Peace, Love, Moustaches and Men's Health!

jab

http://mobro.co/jeffreyaram

On Pins and Needles

2011-10-31T23:33:00.001-05:00

On this Halloween night an omen presented itself, as omens will, in sudden and mysterious fashion.

In anticipation of the birth of our son, the McBonerito's four grandparents are gathered in one house for the first time since our wedding day, 11 years ago. The due date looms tomorrow, but dates and predictions don't mean much to the little guy in utero. So we wait. And while we wait, we feast. My father, in a desperate search for a lemon to garnish his happy hour martini, removed entirely one of the bottom drawers of the refrigerator. Unable to replace the drawer, he left the task to me. What I found upon opening the door would shock me:

Frequent McBoners may remember posts of yore, when an equally frantic search for coffee earned me a similar reward.

Bear in mind that in preparation for the arrival of guests, I had scoured that fridge--every shelf and tray removed, cleaned and replaced. Not a speck of anything foreign could be found.

What can it mean, then, this SECOND pearl-headed refrigerator pin? A portend of things to come? A puckish spirit run amok of our sewing kit? Nay! We own no such pins. My sometimes-popular wife, ever the optimist, embraced the message as positive, of course, and ordered the pin placed in the child's room.

I, the atheist, am shook at the foundations. Once more I must question what I believe. I turn to you, gentle McBoners, in my search for meaning, of pins in fridges, of life, of the universe and its all mad workings.

nwb

Tryout Part II, Final Piece

2011-10-24T18:28:00.001-05:00

On Saturday, after the first session I woke up at about 2pm after a very brief nap on the couch in my mom and dads living room. The couch has always been my spot, in fact you can often times find me sleeping on mine in my living room. I don't know what it is, but I can sleep on the couch just as easily as on a bed, and often times I prefer it.

It was literally the perfect nap. I slept for the perfect amount of time that allowed me to wake up re energized. So many times you can doze off and when you wake up from a nap you're actually more tired then you were before. That would have been a disaster in this case. I took a quick shower to fully wash away the remnants of my snooze and put on my favorite Nike basketball shorts for what I thought would be another 2 hours of intense 5 on 5. I cleaned my shoes up as I always did before my games, packed up the rest of my gear and headed out the door at about 2:45.

I arrived back at the gym in Canton at about 3:15. I was early as we were not scheduled to begin until 3:45. Some of the out-of-towners were laying on the floor sleeping on their gym bags and using their sweatshirts as blankets. It was pretty amazing actually. What some of us were going through to chase our dreams, but I can tell you that it was intoxicating to be in that environment again. I used the extra time to once again stretch out my legs and get as loose as I could. I wanted to be ready to go as soon as I heard the whistle. Slowly everyone started filtering back in, but not everyone. There were clearly some folks that did not return, or maybe were told not to. I'm not sure which but pretty hard to imagine considering there was an entry fee of $150 to just be there.

Coach Jensen arrived and introduced himself at the beginning of the session. He had just been named the head coach a few days earlier and flew into town that morning. He played at Utah with Andre Miller and was an assistant coach under Rick Majerus. Huge guy, good basketball player. Played in the states and overseas professionally and had experienced some of the things we were going through having been through tryouts himself as a player. I was amped up at this point and itching to get going. We started the 2nd session with more weave drills to get warmed up but then moved into some shell drills. They broke us up and had us run through some offensive sets. Fist Up, Fist Out and Flop were the calls and we were to use them in the upcoming games we would play. I was a kid in a candy store at this point and was eating the whole thing up. The point guard spot is my natural position so I loved getting some sets in and being able to run an offense. Direct the guys around and be a leader. I WAS BORN TO DO THIS!

Then we played for about an hour straight and it would prove to be the best I felt and played all weekend. The trainer had taped up my my foot and it was feeling really good. I was getting after it on defense chasing guys all over the floor, diving for loose balls and hawking the opposing guards. My legs were literally covered with floor burns and my arms had scrapes all over them. It was amazing and I loved every second of it. I was rebounding, playing great help defense and I buried the only jump shot I would take. I felt comfortable and confident the entire session. We wrapped up at about 5:30 as the other half of the tryout was going to start the second session. Wes, Coach and Ira brought us in to talk. As I walked to the huddle Wes (The GM) grabbed me and asked if I could stay and play in the night session too. I was the only guy he asked out of the 40 or so in my session so I figured it had to be a good sign. I was completely exhausted, beat up and mentally drained at this point but I sure as hell wasn't going to tell Wes that. I said yes I can definitely stay, whatever you need me to do I'm in. There was a team in the night session who needed a guard so I jumped on to "Team 3". Two more unexpected hours were ahead and I had no idea how my body was going to handle it.

The night session lasted until about 7:45 and we pretty much just played. IT WAS AWFUL. My body completely gave out on me. After I subbed out of my first game I threw up in the trash can and in the towel I was carrying around. I couldn't stop coughing for about 20 minutes and there wasn't enough water in the Atlantic Ocean to rehydrate my drained body. I couldn't dribble, I couldn't defend, I could barely get up and down the floor. I don't know if I have ever subbed myself out of a sporting event in my life but I had absolutely no choice. Betty White could have scored on me at that point and I didn't want to puke on the floor. I literally thought I was going to pass out.

The competition was much stiffer in the 2nd session so I was giving it everything I had, but unfortunately I just had nothing left to give. It was really disappointing that my body prevented me from performing the way I know I could have, but I was simply exhausted. Plain and simple. Four hours later my afternoon session finally ended mercilessly and I collapsed in a heap on the floor by my bag. It took me about 20 minutes just to get my body to a point where I could stand up and drive my car home. I dragged my butt to the car and made the 25 minute drive back to mom and dads. Session #3 would begin at 8am in the morning. All I could think about was getting home to eat about a 1,000 calories of anything that I could find and immediately lie down to sleep.

I got home, ate my dinner, showered and flopped down on the couch. I tried to watch the Ohio State game but I had recorded the wrong game. OSU, it turns out, can also stand for Oklahoma State University. FAIL. As I'm sure you can imagine it did not take me long to fall asleep, but it would not be the night of rest I hoped for. I hurt all over and I just tossed and turned the entire night. I ended up getting maybe three hours of sleep, maybe. 6:30am came quickly.

I woke up and wondered how painful those first two steps would be, and how sore my legs would feel. It was not good. Took me about a minute just to climb the 10 steps to get upstairs. I shook off the early morning daze and got myself in the shower. I ate a banana and drank a 12 oz bottle of water to get hydrated. I was definitely sore and beat up, but overall I felt fairly strong. Today was going to be a good day. We had one session and it was mostly just playing. Short session.

I left at 7:15am and arrived in Canton at 7:45am. My radio was blasting the entire way with music that gets me pumped up. I can't reveal my song selections, but I can tell you that I was getting goosebumps on the way down. What if they actually pulled me aside and told me I was going to get invited to camp? What the hell was I going to do about my job that I just got promoted at? Decisions that would have to be made later. Now I just needed to make one last impression.

The last session literally flew by and I played very well. Even more guys didn't show up but those weren't the guys I needed to worry about anyway. My legs came back and I was able to get back to what I do best. Defend and run the offense. My team won every game we played on Sunday which ended up being four games of 12 minutes running clock. Other then our warm-up all we did in the final session was get after it in live scrimmages. Once again I ran myself into the ground and left every ounce of energy I had out on the floor. In the back of my mind I was thinking this could be the last time I play a meaningful game of hoops in my life. If you know me at all you know how difficult a realization this was, but all I could control was playing the way I've played the game of basketball my entire life. So that is what I did. Our session ended at about 10:00 and I walked off the floor. Wes brought us in and said that they would get in touch with our agents or with us directly if they had an interest. He thanked us for the weekend and said it was one of the most talented tryouts he had ever been a part of.

And so it was over. I did my best, left some skin on the floor and could go home knowing I did everything I could. I would say it was very unlikely that this 5'10, 30 year old white guy was what they were looking for, but I'm confident that I at least made an impression. If I don't make the cut I could always say I tried out for a professional basketball team on my 30th birthday, and held my own with some of the best basketball players in the country. It was an incredible feeling and amazing experience from start to finish, something I will surely never forget. I sent an email to all the guys running the tryout to say thank you, and I really meant that. At this point I was not that concerned with the result. I'm pretty happy with my life and I've got a great career. But I truly was thankful for having a chance to go through this experience, and that I didn't give up, I didn't quit, and I competed. Nobody could ever take that away.

So I'm sure you are wondering what happened, and if I ever got that call. Well no, I haven't received a phone call yet. They've only signed two players that we know of and none yet from the tryout. I told Wes that even if they have no interest in me to play on the team, I'd be more than happy to come down and practice with the team and beat up his players a little bit. They only carry 10 guys on the roster so they will need some practice players to give the guys some reps.

Well I guess that is pretty much it for the story of my tryout. I hope you enjoyed the read and thanks for following along. All the support from friends and family was incredible. Back to reality, for now......

My Tryout Story, Day 1, Session 1

2011-10-19T20:13:00.004-05:00

The day had finally arrived. I literally had been dreaming about an opportunity to play professional basketball my entire life. Not just deaming though, but searching out opportunities to make it happen. Now I found myself, on my 30th birthday, driving down I-77 South heading towards a high school gynamisum to try out for the Canton Charge. An NBDL team owned by the very company I work for.

The ride down I found myself thinking about a day that I spent at Springside, the fitness club in Akron I frequented during my younger days. I trained there often and played in 5 on 5 games with a bunch of older guys who would come on their lunch break. Good games and sometimes a former NBA player would even stop by when it was the offseason. Jimmy Oliver. He played for the Cavaliers and Celtics, but more notably became a star overseas. He was about 6'7, strong, and had a tremendous jumpshot. He had the opportunity to earn a great living for his family playing for several different teams in Europe. Jimmy is a great guy. He befriended me and would stay after to help me work on my game. I would always take the challenge of guarding him in the games because I knew it would only make me better. He was a beast but I loved mixing it up with him. On one particular day he said something to me that would stick with me. "You should be playing overseas. Get an agent and take a shot." I didn't do it, obviously, but I didn't forget it either.

So I arrived at Canton McKinley High School at 8am. Tryouts were to begin at 9:00am but they needed an hour to get everyone registered. Ricky Garratt, my man from the Q box office was running the registration table, along with James Williams who is the director of player personnel for the Charge. I stepped into the building and saw far more guys than I had expected. Looked to be at least 50 or 60, which eventually turned out to be over 70. Everyone was standing around nervously waiting to be registered. A lot of guys much bigger than I. In fact I may have been the smallest overall, and one of the few white guys. There were some issues with the internet so we were all forced to wait. We walked down to the court and everyone spread out and most of the guys sat down. It was early. Basketball players are used to getting up early for workouts, but I think we all tend to be mostly night owls. There were some tired faces and lots of yawning.

I used the delay as an opportunity to start stretching out my 30 year old body. I brought an elastic band and my new shoes had barely been broken in. So every additional minute was important for me to get my body loose and get a sweat going. Most of these guys were much younger than I was so they probably could jump on the court and start playing. As I could when I was 22, but if I attempted that now I'd be in the hospital within 10 minutes.

Finally the internet started working and we could get everyone registered and signed in. Wes Wilcox is the GM for the team and he brought us in for a little talk. He introduced Ira Newble (former Cavalier) and James Williams as guys who would be helping out during the weekend. Alex Jensen, the newly named head coach, would be joining later. He said we'd be doing some conditioning, running a few basic drills but mostly playing throughout the weekend so they could get as much time evaluating as possible. They passed out our NBDL Canton Charge jerseys and we were broken into teams of 9-10 players. It was about 9:00am and the experience was about to begin. There were a million emotions going through my mind and body but probably different than what you expect. I wasn't nervous, instead I was excited and the adrenaline was coursing through my veins. I wasn't overwhelmed or intimidated by the mostly 6'4 - 6'8 guys around me that had played Division I basketball or already had played professional. I was motivated and determined to be noticed amongst these guys that most likely already had a reputation with our evaluators. The first drill would be three man weave. One of my favorites. Three lines with the ball starting in the middle. Pass to your right or left as everyone sprints down the court. Passer runs behind the guy he passed to and last pass should to a guy at the opposite end of the court for a layup. We divided into three lines under the basket and Ira explained what he wanted.....Here we go. At this point all I could think about was that there was not one guy in this gym that was going to leave more out on this court than me. I was ready to bleed, sweat, puke, run, dive, and whatever else it was going to take to be noticed. I took my spot in the left line because I knew I could showcase my speed. The first drill began, picture is below, you can just see me waiting for my turn. Everything I am, everything I want to be....let's go...The next two days would be one of the greatest challenges of my life.

http://www.cantonrep.com/photos/x940617041/Canton-Charge-NBA-Development-League-Tryouts?foto=26

The first drills were smooth. I got loose and the three man weave was just as natural as it had been when we ran it in high school and college. Up and down we went and I felt amazing. Feet and legs were holding up and my conditioning was strong. We broke into a 5-man weave and it was more of the same. Gave me a chance to use my speed and lead my groups by communicating, which is key to making sure the weave is done correctly. Ball should never touch the floor.

After that we broke into some three on two, two on one drills. Up and down the floor to first test our decision making in the fast break scenario, and then how we would do in a compromised defensive position. 2 on 1 fast break. On an island by myself. The first drill I found myself on the defensive side of the 2 on 1. Two guys spring down the sides, both 6'4 or bigger. Defense. My bread and butter back in the day. pass went from my left to right and the big guy ended up with ball and went up for a dunk. But he never got the chance, I stripped the ball away. Nice little confidence booster.

Ok so things were going fairly well to this point. We broke off from the drills and Wes brought us in. He wanted us to run through one conditioning drill to see who had truly prepared themselves for this. He called it "The Easy Run". A conditioning drill that the Cavaliers use constantly to keep the team in the best shape possible. Up the length of the floor in a light jog with the hands raised all the way in the air. Defensive slide to the right, then backwards shuffle back with hands in the air. It was one long line, no breaks, repeating for 15 minutes straight. Way tougher than it sounds. First the arms and shoulders go, then the legs start. I loved it.

This was the first time you could really start to separate the men from the boys. Some dropped out and couldn't finish, others laborerd their way through. Either way it was now time to play 5 on 5 live basketball. No play calls, just hoops. He broke us into 10 teams of about 8-10 players each. We played 12 minute games and would sub in one time. I started at the 2-guard position with my team. Everything was going well. A hit a jumper and I was playing the kind defense that I used to drive offensive players with. Up in your face from one end to the other. We were well as a team and winning our game when it hit. Out of nowhere my legs got heavy. Like 50 lb sand bags were suddenly dumped on my shoulders. I committed a couple bad turnovers right before our group subbed out. We went on to win the game but I was a little disappointed that my legs gave out on me. My Plantar was definitely acting up and I think it really hurt me as I was compensating with my left side. But I think I may have overdone it on Friday morning playing three hours and then lifting in the afternoon. It was definitely more fatigue then not being in good enough shape. Pissed me off because I could have performed better in the games.

So that was about it for the first session. It was about 12:30pm by this time. I'd give myself a B- based on my overall performance. Good effort and intensity, but the afternoon session needed to be better. It was time to get back to my parents house to refuel, regroup physically and mentally. Maybe even a little nap. I called my dad on the way back and he offered a little advice. Just go out there and play, have fun and enjoy it. Good advice, but I could enjoy it later. All I could think at that moment is how I could improve when I had to report back at 3:45pm for session II of the day.

I enjoyed a bowl of pasta, a banana and a ton of water to get some calories in my body. Then I took a quick shower and then laid on the couch with the TV on. Slowly my eyes closed....

To Be Continued....

Tryout Eve!

2011-10-17T18:44:00.003-05:00

Ok wait, there is a little more to get to before the actual tryout. I think it's important to have the entire experience down in writing....

The Friday morning before the big day I woke up at 5am to get a workout in. I played basketball with the usual 6am morning hoops crew to work on a few small things I wanted to focus on. I also made a decision to play in the 7:30am run, something that I very rarely do. Thought I could use a little more game action to get myself ready. We'll get back to that decision later.
The Lake Erie Monsters also played a game on the Friday night before tryouts, and so I was busy with the usual game day workload. However this day was different then most in my tenure with Cleveland's hockey team. My thoughts and mental focus were in another place, on another challenge that was inevitably coming. I couldn't help but think about what was coming that next morning and what this opportunity meant. Basketball is part of my DNA, part of who I am. I never was able to get over the fact that I wasn't a basketball player anymore. Everyone wants to be identified by things they do well. Basketball was something I've always known I could do better than most, but my potential never was never fully realized. Maybe this was one last chance to prove that, or maybe it was just one last chance to get on the hardwood with something on the line.

Either way I couldn't help but feeling a little guilty throughout the day for my mind being elsewhere on a game day. My team depends on me, and I depend on them, but that day admittedly I couldn't keep my mind on the business. Shortly after the puck dropped at 7:30pm I headed up to the office to pack my bags and sneak out a little early, but not before I got a phone call from one Scott Gordon. Our Senior Client Relationship Executive. He said there was an issue and needed my help right away. I literally had my bags on my shoulders and was walking out the door, and it was absolutely the last thing I needed at that moment. An angry fan screaming at me sending my blood pressure through the roof. But I put my stuff down and headed back down to the concourse.

Shockingly, there was no emergency. Someone on our team, who will remain nameless, had set me up. Again. And it was none other than the person that has stood side by side with me since the Monsters were born and helped build it from scratch. Who coincidentally is also turning 30 soon. Anyway, I was called out onto a platform by my good friend and our in-arena host at Monsters games, Olivier Sedra. He then proceeded to do a live spot with me on camera and put me on blast in front of the entire arena of Monsters fans. Happy 30th birthday and good luck was the message, followed by my Armenian mug on the giant Q-tube as he let everyone in the building know. The whole thing actually made me relax a little bit and made me feel great about the people that make up our Monsters team. It's why we are who we are. Good people are what make an organization great, not the other way around.

But I digress....

So I finally was able to leave the arena and head to my house in Ohio City. I packed my bags with enough gear for three days down in Akron and four sessions of basketball. The plan was to stay with my parents in Bath, which was much closer to the tryout location, Canton McKinley Memorial Gymnasium. It was going to make the early mornings much easier and just being at home would have a calming affect on my mental state. But that Friday night I decided to stay in Cleveland so I could get to bed sooner and then make the early morning drive down.

The one thing I haven't mentioned yet is that for the last three months I have also been fighting a very severe Plantar Fasciitis injury. It has limited my quickness and explosiveness on the court and it is extremely painful anytime I play. I've never really had an injury like this that would just not go away, so it definitely has caused some adversity adjusting to playing with it constantly. So I got one more stretching session with exercises provided to me by my friend Jennifer, who is also suffering from the injury, and iced it down for 25 minutes. There would be a trainer at the tryouts to tape me up so I wasn't overwhelmingly concerned about it affecting my play, but it definitely was in the back of my mind. Either way I'm not an excuses type of guy and I never have been. Everyone who has been playing basketball as long as I have has injuries. As the saying goes, only the strong survive. SO... I eventually got to bed around 10:00pm with my gear packed and my new Nike basketball shoes ready to lead me onto the hardwood. I laid myself down hoping that my brain would shut down long enough to get a few hours of sleep and the anxiety would not keep me awake....

To be continued.....

jab

Canton Charge Tryouts

2011-10-17T10:15:00.002-05:00

The story of my tryout did not begin on Saturday, October 15th 2011 on my 30th birthday, but long ago when my favorite sport became my passion. Basketball is a game I started playing around four or five years old. I took every opportunity available to pick up a ball and shoot at anything even resembling a hoop. Including setting up a mini hoop in the living room, moving furniture and shooting with socks covered with Duct tape. At my grandparents house there was not a mini hoop readily available, so we would tape a shoe box to a skylight. It was in a narrow hallway barely wide enough to fit two people standing side by side, but is was all we needed to get our basketball fix. Nate, being six years older, was always taller and stronger, but I held my own.

My passion for the game grew as I developed an affinity for the Cleveland Cavaliers as my favorite Cleveland sports team. Mark Price was the smoothest point guard I had ever watched. Running the offense seamlessly and executing the pick and roll with Brad Daugherty to perfection. It was unstoppable. He could shoot from anywhere on the floor and with hands in his face. He had a deadly release and always found a way to get his running one-hander offer in traffic amongst the trees down in the paint. This guy was a genius. Go back and watch some tape of his jumper. No matter where he was on the floor he found a way to square his shoulders to the basket as he released. This was the first lesson I learned about shooting a jump shot. My dad would say "Watch him when he shoots. You square your shoulders like that and you will always have a chance to make the shot."

Anyway basketball became my first true love. I was a standout in the Perkins rec league in West Akron. Every time I stepped on the floor my obsession with the game heightened. However, on one faithful day after I had moved to Bath I stepped into the gym at Revere middle school for my 8th grade tryout. Coach Burnett was the 8th grade coach. He proceeded to cut me from the team because I wasn't tall enough. There were literally guys on the team that could barely make a layout, and I played tremendous throughout the entire week of tryouts. Even though I was one of the best two or three players on that court, he decided my height just wasn't up to his standards and he sent me packing. Probably should have crushed me, but as it was, the moment I read the sheet with the final roster, and didn't see my name was also the exact moment I decided I would play college basketball. I was furious and more motivated then I had ever been in my life.

And so I played four years at Revere High School. It ended my senior year against Warrensville Heights in the state playoffs. Jubie Johnson and company were one of the top ranked teams and eventual State champs. I hit a three with 10 seconds left to tie a game that we were expected to be blow out of. Jubie air balled a three with two seconds left, or so I thought. I went to grab the ball and it glanced off the rim just over my hands, and one of their guys flipped it in at the buzzer. Although I had tied up Jubie early in the possession and it should have been called a jump ball with us getting possession. Anyway I collapsed where I stood and cried my way into the locker room for about 20 minutes. I knew it wasn't over. I went on to play an unassuming three years at Heidelberg University. Two different head coaches and two very different philosophies, I never really got my feet on the ground. After college my game blossomed as my body finished filling in and I gained a better understanding of the complexities of the game. I continued to play after college and my skills progressed to a point where I was actually a far better player than I had ever been in college or high school. I've continued to play 2-3 times a week for the last eight years, along with developing a fairly serious weight lifting program.

Then the announcement was made. Dan Gilbert had purchased a D-League team. A developmental professional basketball team that would serve as the direct feeder for the NBA Cleveland Cavaliers. Open tryouts would be announced shortly after. I knew immediately that I would be there. I took my training up a couple notches now knowing exactly what I was training for. Plyo-metrics, weights, late night and early morning shooting sessions. 5 on 5 with the morning hoops crew. I did everything I thought I needed to do to be ready...

The day arrived. Saturday, October 15th. My 30th birthday. I woke up at 5am having packed all my stuff for the weekend the night before. I got in the car and hopped on I-77 South heading towards Canton-Mckinley Memorial Gymnasium. One of the greatest challenges and most fulfilling experiences of my life would begin in just two hours........

to be continued.......

jab

Round One

2011-10-16T14:17:00.000-05:00

Fall. Some call it their favorite season. Some go as far as to wax poetic about it. I understand. Hell, I'm an autumn child. As seasons go, fall is one of the best, but I don't love everything about it.

This is the pile of leaves I raked this morning:

McGraw 1, Leaves 0

Notice that none of the leaves from the tree directly above the pile have fallen yet:

McGraw 1, Leaves 1

And here is a sizable hunk of squirrel tail found in the yard. Not sure what squirrel dismemberment has to do with the time of year, but squirrels and fall leaves are a kindred menace.

McGraw 2, Leaves and Squirrels 1

Bring it, bitches.

nwb

Stabbone at 30

2011-10-15T19:41:00.006-05:00

Today is my idiot brother's 30th birthday. It also happens to be the day of his big tryout with the new NBA D-League team, the Canton Charge. What business does a thirty-year-old have on the same court with much younger and much taller NBA aspirants? Understand that my brother grew up idolizing an overachiever named Mark Price, a six-foot point guard drafted in the second round who went on to become an all-NBA first-teamer with the Cavaliers. I think my brother always saw a bit of himself in Mark Price--the tenacity, the fearlessness, the sensible haircut--and I think that must have contributed in some way in his decision to go for it this weekend.

Should my brother similarly beat long odds and make the team, he would be the first in our family to play professional sports since our great uncle Grant had a cup of coffee with the White Sox in the early '30s. Uncle Grant drifted west once his playing days were over and became known as the "Gentleman Pimp of Denver." He was found face down in the prairie with a bullet in his back, but that's fodder for another day's blog.

Because today is Stabbone's big day, and to celebrate I shall pour a Bombay martini on the rocks with a twist and two olives. I will not pour two Bombay martinis on the rocks with a twist and two olives, just in case my sometimes-pregnant wife decides to go into labor.

So this martini is for you, jab. Though the younger and lesser brother you may be, ever striving toward your lodestar (me), you've come a long way. After a mere 30 years of living, you've found an awesome gal and a great job in the promised land. Now you're saying 'fuck it' to the world and pursuing a dream. For that, I'm proud of you.

Happy birthday, idiot.

nwb

T-Minus

2011-10-08T22:33:00.000-05:00

My sometimes-pregnant wife can't get much bigger. Here I am getting sucked into her gravitational pull.

Photo by Spronk, whose leftover lunch is now under 24-hour observation at the Purdue University Department of Food Science.

nwb

36 and counting....

2011-10-03T19:05:00.001-05:00

My idiot brother turns 36 years old today. Six years is all that separates the two Bowler brothers. But it's actually quite amazing how big a difference that six years can make. The fact that I have an infinite amount more of natural athletic ability, I'm a thousand times more handsome, our nieces like me way better, and our dog Cassie (RIP) always seemed to favor me . Hell even his own son will probably love me more. It's hard to figure out how it's all possible.

I have to imagine being the 2nd best Bowler brother is a difficult job to take on every single day. I never have nor will I ever know in the future how that feels, but I just know it has to be tough. For that I give you a ton of credit.

Mom and Dad may say they love us all equally, but that's like saying someone feels the same way about Hamburger Helper and Filet Mignon.

Not that I'm comparing you to hamburger helper, maybe just tuna noodle casserole.

So in conclusion, you degenerate....Your genius, humor and future as one of the world's all-time greatest dads make you one of the best people to ever walk the earth. And of course your affinity for gin, Swenson's, Cleveland sports, Bob Dylan, ribs, and the story of Rock McGraw and Stabbone make you my brother.

Love you bro. Happy Birthday. Idiot.

jab

Take a Risk, Not Afraid to Fail

2011-09-30T21:52:00.002-05:00

I believe that most people think and dream about their aspirations and goals constantly. Probably every single day. I know that I do. And I guess I have nothing to prove that this statement is true, but I would say that approximately 99% of those people don't do a damn thing to act on any of it. My opinion is that most are cripled by the fear of failure or humiliation. It is a scary thing to go after something that you are so passionate about, and have it crumble right in front of your eyes. The people around you that truly love you won't care, they will still love you, but deep down you still feel like they think of you a little bit differently. Maybe judging just a little bit, having conversations between themselves about how you should have known better. On some level that probably does happen a little bit.

Anyway so I'm going to do something in a couple weeks that I can guarantee most people will think is ridiculous. I don't care what they say to my face, how much they say good luck, secretly they are saying this guy is losing it. Or he needs to move on.

So the Cavaliers recently purchased a NBA D-League team which will make its home in Canton. They will play their 24 home games at the Canton Memorial Civic Center. The organization will be holding open try-outs for local players looking to fulfill a lifelong aspiration and dream of playing professional hoops. I'm sure by now you can venture a guess as to where this is going. I'm trying out. It's a two day session one being held on the 8th and 9th, the other on the 16th and 17th. That would be a day after my 30th birthday. I haven't decided which I will be attending, but my registration is filled out and turned in.

Crazy, right? I can imagine some of my buddies reaction when they read this. The reality is the D-League is an up and coming pro league that has some of the best basketball players in the world. Mostly Division I players that did not get drafted or invited to an NBA training camp. The number of players in the NBA that graduated from the D is growing every year. A daunting reality for me indeed.

Am I hanging on to a few words a former NBA player said to me almost a decade ago? Maybe... I used to play at Springside Raquet Club in Akron where former NBA player and Euro MVP Jimmy Oliver worked out in the offseason. We would go at it from time to time. Just playing one on one. He told me once I should go try and play in Europe. Get an agent and see if he could get me a shot. Far fetched again, I know.

But that's not it. The fact of the matter is I love the game of basketball, and I'm good at it. I'm better than any of my coaches ever gave me credit for. I am also in the best shape of my life physically and playing better basketball than I ever did. I also have absolutely nothing to lose by going to an open tryout and playing the game I enjoy so much. I would regret not giving it a shot the rest of my life. Even if the likelihood of making the team is slim to none. Even if I will probably have to have the conversation, "How did it go?", "I didn't make it", a million times. Even if I fall flat on my face. So I'm going to do it. I'm going to go out there and leave it all out on the floor and play a meaningful game of basketball for probably the last time in my life. No matter the outcome I'll know that I wasn't too afraid of something to take a chance. That I relied more in my belief than anything else.

I would encourage any of you reading this to take the same approach with anything in your life that you've be afraid to try, or just haven't pulled the trigger on yet. I have to believe that most great accomplisments were preceded by failure at some level. Take a risk. Even if it means taking on a few bruises along the way.

jab

Indians Season Wrapup

2011-09-30T00:24:00.010-05:00

I have a terrible taste in my mouth after the Indians concluded what was a more or less successful season. Considering the preseason predictions and the financial climate in which they operate, I should be happy with a 11-game improvement over last year and a decent outlook for 2012. Still, did they HAVE to lose ALL NINE of their final games against the Tigers? Did they have to be swept thrice in three late-season series? That's the difference between an 80-82 team and a 89-73 team. Had they won ONE of those games, their record would today be standing at a respectable .500. And really, 81-81 just looks much nicer than 80-82. What's worse, much of the damage done in those games came at the hands of former Indians Victor Martinez and Jhonny Peralta, who exasperated fans in Cleveland by being boring, 'fat' and putting up a meager 20 and 80 each season.

I'm trying to be positive here, but those 9 games really stick in the craw.

Argh.

Anyway, here are the conclusions I've drawn:

McBoneriffic

Second Place - I had them finishing 6th in their 5-team division, so 2nd place in the standings looks mighty good considering my preseason pessimism.

The Bullpen - Anchored by five arms with a composite ERA of 2.74: Rafael Perez, Tony Sipp, Vinnie Pestano, Joe Smith and closer Chris Perez (36/40 in save opportunities). This complement of relievers was unimpeachable. If bullpens weren't so maddeningly inconsistent from year to year, I'd say the team should be set through 2015 in this department. These unsung stalwarts kept the season afloat when the injuries and losses started mounting.

Asdrubal Cabrera - A late season fade does not negate an injury-free breakout year. Never saw the 25 home runs coming. He's no Vizquel in the field, but the occasional flub with the glove is more than offset by frequent brilliance. Without the team MVP, we're talking 15 fewer wins, at least. Would have been a candidate for league MVP but for the second-half dropoff.

Justin Masterson - Rotation's MVP. Never complained that the team averaged 0.3 runs for him. Should have won 18 games. Ideal #2 starter.

Carlos Santana - Quick hands and a violently powerful swing generate tons of power. When (if) he learns to shorten his swing by a fraction, he will be a 30+ 100+ guy. Combines power with patience. I love how often he gets on base, but he needs to hit .280, not .240. A hair's breadth away from superstardom.

Josh Tomlin - This kid doesn't have the showiest arm, but he displayed good stuff and poise well beyond his years his first campaign. I don't think anyone foresaw a 12-7 season. Went 2-2 with an RBI and a run scored in stupid interleague play. Pitchers should never hit. Ever.

Jason Kipnis - Rookie looks like a gamer. Hard-nosed and ready to play immediately upon his call up from AAA. Showed a lot of power and no jitters in his first big-league action. Starting second baseman next year, end of story.

Shelley Duncan - Can't believe I'm saying this, but he should have been playing every day on this team. He remains a backup outfielder on a good team, though. Incendiary August has me hoping he's back next year as our fourth outfielder.

Manny Acta - Kept the kids playing hard through a summer swoon and all the way up to the bitter end.

Meh

Ubaldo Jimenez - The team's success next year hinges on Ubaldo's success. I commend Antonetti's testicular fortitude for trading pitching prospects #1 and #2 for a guy who could very well be the next Fausto Carmona.

Kosuke Fukudome - He is what he is, but he stabilized an injury-plagued outfield with some energetic play after a midseason trade.

Travis Hafner - Found his swing. Hit several game winning home runs. Got injured.

Fans - Beat last year's attendance. Beat projections. Should have been more supportive of an overachieving team that thrived at home.

Lonnie Chisenhall - Third baseman of the future looked overmatched. I'm not crazy about his bat speed (slow) or his apparent aversion to getting on the basepaths. Has all the swagger and confidence of a young Andy Marte. Better keep these guys around:

Jack Hannahan and Jason Donald - Did what utility infielders are supposed to do: not much. Hannahan was, at times, spectacular at third. Can't hit a lick.

Ezequiel Carrera - Stubbornly unproductive. Give the guy 700 ABs and you will get a solid .255 with 20 RBI.

McBlech!

Matt LaPorta - Sabathia for LaPorta will go down as one of the five worst trades in the history of the franchise. Classic no-tool player. Doesn't hit for average or power. Doesn't get on base. Can't field. Can't run. His 11 home runs were three more than utility infielder Jack Hannahan's. All of his RBI were earned on fielder's choice groundouts. Should never have another at bat with this team.

Matt LaPorta - He predicted that this season would determine if he was a 15 or a 40 home run guy, then failed to amass 15 home runs.

Matt LaPorta - Led the league in getting jammed.

Fausto Carmona - Enough already. Sick stuff, and absolutely no faith in it. If fellow sinkerballer Jake Westbrook had Fausto's arm, he'd be a Hall of Famer.

Shin-Soo Choo - Got drunk, got injured, didn't produce when he was on the field. The team's all around best player from the past two seasons might as well have used 2011 to fulfill his military obligation in South Korea. Major letdown. Cost the team many, many victories.

Grady Sizemore - I'm sure Grady will have a renaissance with another team. Played well for one week after returning from injury, and then got injured. Still strikes out too much. Career in shambles. Should be on the verge of a $20+ million contract with the Yankees. Pundits wonder if the Indians will pick up his option. Future Pittsburgh Pirate?

Injuries - Sizemore, Brantley, Choo (that's the entire starting outfield, folks), Tomlin, Carrasco, Talbot (that's three starting pitchers), Hafner, Kipnis...etc, etc. The staggering body count made necessary the services of guys like Ezequiel Carrera.

Jim Thome - So, the guy skips town for more money and, after he clears waivers 10 years later and collects a couple of feel-good homers, suddenly we're erecting a STATUE of him? Makes me almost as sick as Chief Wahoo does.

Chief Wahoo - This ugly, obnoxious, outmoded, tacky, offensive and racist logo remains, aside from Matt LaPorta's swing, the most hideous sight in all of American Sport.

Dolans - 0.0 McBones. Why be that rich and own a baseball team if you're not going to enjoy it? Dolans are like the guy who buys a Ferrari and parks it in storage for 40 years.

So that's it. I'll give this season a 3.0 McBone rating with a--yes I'm going there--positive outlook. Another year of seasoning and a few less injuries should have them in the hunt in 2012. They will not be good enough/healthy enough/lucky enough to make the playoffs, but a five game improvement is plausible.

Oh, and regarding the events of yesterday:

Ballplayers have been chafing under the sportswriter irritant for as long as there have been ballplayers and sportswriters. This is the best of the best. I believe the reporter intentionally asked the stupidest question possible to see if Jonathan Papelbon's head would explode. Watch his eyes bug out. See the unfiltered hate pour forth:

Jonathan Papelbon's pain = McBone endorphin rush.

nwb

McBone Birdwatchign Journal; Eastern Bluebird

2011-09-25T22:07:00.001-05:00

Last week my very sprightly, sometimes-pregnant wife sprang up from a sitting position, catapulted herself over the orb...

...somersaulted to my desk, grabbed the camera, and, a split second before it flitted away, captured this eastern bluebird perched atop our feeder stand:

A tree-filled city neighborhood is not the natural habitat of a bluebird. How nice of it to stop by McBone Manor for a spell. All it took was an Olympian display of athleticism to bring it to you, gentle McBoners.

nwb

Monstrous Oversight

2011-09-24T18:19:00.007-05:00

As my two partner bloggers and resident Musicologist recently chimed in regarding the breakup of R.E.M., I feel compelled to hold up my corner of the triumvirate. What follows is a brief history of my experience with the band:

1989 - Watched video for Stand. Outwardly dismissed it as 'weird.' Inwardly embraced it as 'awesome and weird.'

Aug. 1995 - Enrolled at Ohio University in Athens, Ohio.

Sep. 1995 - Watched video for Tongue. Capitally enjoyed melodic piano, organ and slow, sensual Stipe falsetto. Vowed to listen to roommate's copy of Monster all the way through. Too stoned to remember to follow through on vow.

Oct. 1995 - Answered 'YES!' to question 'Do you like R.E.M.?' posed by amorous co-ed. Inability to unclasp brassiere incites chaos. Dropped out of Ohio University.

Jun. 2008 - Remembering fondness for Tongue, tried downloading track to iTunes. Transaction failed due to 'insufficient funds' in bank account.

Sep. 2011 - Watched video for Stand and Tongue on YouTube.

So there you have it. I feel the final chapter of this decades-long tale has yet to be written. I respect the musical tastes of my partner bloggers without reservation, except when it comes to Shaft and his curious yen for the sounds of X-mas. I may be painfully late to the party, but better late than never. So let's do this thing. I hereby announce my official Quest for R.E.M. Fanhood, to commence immediately upon posting. I have high hopes; lots of good stuff has come out of Georgia.

nwb

We Are All Texans Now

2011-09-21T23:51:00.003-05:00

I don't know much about Troy Davis, except that he died tonight by lethal injection. He could well have been a cold-blooded killer who shot a cop to death, but I'm in no position to opine on that. This isn't about Troy Davis, anyway.

This isn't about morality, either. I don't have any real objection to a murderer being repaid in kind.

What I believe, though, is that any state that hands down a sentence of death will eventually err. Somewhere, sometime, an innocent person will die.

Capital punishment should exist only in an infallible system. Maybe that's what our latest cowboy of a presidential candidate thinks he has down there in the Lone Star State. I would argue that there's no such thing, and the practice, states' rights be damned, must be abolished forevermore.

nwb

McBone Mini-Reviews; Drive

2011-09-20T21:13:00.007-05:00

I was going to use this space to tell you all how much I liked Drive. You know, like back in the distant past when I used to do movie reviews? If I had some kind of tricked-out, time-traveling sports car with a stainless steel exterior made by a long defunct manufacturer, I'd revisit those days and say that what I liked most was how purely cinematic the film was, how Danish director Nicholas Winding Refn bucks the conventions of bloated Hollywood, doesn't OD on dialogue or plot and lets images tell a story about a guy who drives. Channeling the silent era is to be admired in the age of Michael Bay doing to cinema what Olive Garden has done to Italian.

I'd like to go on about how good Ryan Gosling and Carey Mulligan are at shutting up and expressing themselves with subtle gesture and quiet wit. I could tell you how terrifying Albert Brooks and Ron Perlman are as second-rate gangster thugs. And then there's the way Refn gives the flick real style with long takes, synthy songs and a seriously laid-back 'tude. Not to say Drive is a snoozer--there's real menace behind the hypnotic pace that keeps things moving along.

All that stuff would be terrific to blog about, but what I can't get out of my head is one of the most brutal onscreen killings I've ever seen. It wasn't really the killing itself that got me as much as the reaction of the crowd. While my jaw clenched at the sight of savage, execution-style violence, several in the audience erupted in howling laughter. Mind you, this was not a funny death; this was a very seriously rendered murder. All around us, young men guffawed as if Inspector Clouseau was tumbling down a flight of stairs.

You can impugn my sense of humor if you like, but I've laughed at movie death before. Even with splashes of humor here and there, at no point does Drive feel like parody. The scene in question had all the hilarity of a cancer diagnosis.

So, I don't know whether to be relieved that there remains a shred of sensitivity in my own numbed-down psyche or disturbed by the apparent enthusiasm with which many of us observe violent death.

I get it that it's just a movie, but then is it? Why do we go to movies, if not for a sense of pathos? And why do so many of us seem to get worked up about human death when it comes to the unborn or the vegetative?

Anyways:

Drive: 4.5 McBones

Audience response to gruesome death: 0.0 McBones

nwb

Indy, St Elmo, Buckeyes, and Browns!

2011-09-16T16:31:00.004-05:00

I think maybe sometime early in my teens I decided that I was going to live life to its fullest. Every opportunity to create a "memory" I was going to take, and every opportunity to do something "memorable" I would be open to the adventure. Life is so fragile and I think people are so often held back from really doing the things they want to do. Maybe it's perception, maybe it's financial, maybe they're just scared.. I don't know. What I do know is that I'm not going to live that way, ever.

Anyway I'm not going skydiving or climbing Mount Everest. In fact all I'm doing is traveling 5 hrs west to visit the phenomenal city of Indianapolis. But these little trips, these little chances to do something different and fun are what make life so enjoyable.

So on Saturday I'm heading to Indy with my tailgating posse and we have a very simple agenda. Have as much fun as we possible can in about a 24 hr period. Here are the steps:

1.) 12:00pm Saturday - Depart Cleveland for a road trip with all five of us in one car. Love road trips!

2.) 5:30pm Saturday - Arrive in Indianapolis and check in at Hilton Garden Inn directly across the street from Lucas Oil Stadium

3.) 6:00pm Saturday - Head to ST ELMO steakhouse. Gin martini first followed by the most incredible shrimp cocktail on Earth, and then the biggest steak they have

4.) 7:30pm - ???? Saturday - Head to local Browns Backers Bar, Scotty's Brewhouse, to watch the Ohio State Buckeyes roll over the Miami Hurricanes. Kevin Mack and Hanford Dixon will be in attendance. Both of which came to Browns Tribute Night at a Monsters game last year. Great guys.

5.) 8:30am Sunday - Head back to Scotty's for Browns pregame tailgate

6.) 1:00pm Sunday - Sit down in our row 15 endzone seats at Lucas Oil to witness the 1st Browns victory of the season.

There is a word I've heard people use to describe things that are generally considered to be way above average. I think the word is AWESOME. That is basically the only word needed to describe the next 24 hours of my life.

Oh - I'm also going to Maxi's in Little Italy for dinner tonight. TREMENDOUS restaurant.

jab

Dalai Lama in 2012!

2011-09-13T22:10:00.004-05:00

This will sound rather pessimistic in tone, but please keep in mind that what follows is my first post since watching the Browns' season opener.

Articles like this one from the NY Times simultaneously exhilarate and frustrate the fuck out of me.

Is there life out there? Of course. Obviously. To doubt it is to display very little understanding of how vast 'out there' really is. True, HD 85512b (awesome name for a planet and, coincidentally, the serial number of our toaster) may be and probably is devoid of life, but just what if?

Astronomers cautioned that it would take years and observations from telescopes not yet built before...a search for signs of life could be undertaken.

What I want to know is can we stop killing each other and shitting on our planet long enough to make contact or even catch a glimpse? Can we forestall self-destruction and give these brilliant telescope builders enough time?

Doubt it.

I know we have the ingenuity to probe ever further into the unknown, but ingenuity can carry us so far without wisdom. As celestial mysteries unfold slowly through the lens, wars keep raging and the Earth keeps cooking. Sooner or later something's gotta give.

Now that the Dalai Lama is retiring from Tibetan politics, I wonder if His Holiness might give us a try.

nwb

Miller Time

2011-09-11T09:23:00.000-05:00

All I'm going to say is that one tragic day begot ten tragic years and counting.

It's time to wrap this business up.

Bring 'em home.

Now.

Peace,

nwb

Are you ready for the game?

2011-09-09T15:59:00.001-05:00

I was asked that question maybe 35 times today, starting with the first person I saw when I got into work, the security guard.

It is amazing living in a city that can bring together every single walk of life. No matter what race, gender, ethnicity, job, or where they live, we all have one thing in common. When you are in Cleveland starting in September, there is only one thing that "Are you ready for the game" can mean to us... CLEVELAND BROWNS FOOTBALL!

It is an unspoken language that only Clevelanders understand. This simple phrase is a bond between all of us that live and work in Northeast Ohio. Deb (the security guard that greeted me this morning) didn't ask me if I like football, or if I like the Browns, she just wanted to gauge how excited I was that the Browns are kicking off a new era on Sunday @ 1pm vs the Cincinnati Bungals, I mean Bengals. She didn't have to ask, she assumed, she knew that as a native of Northeast Ohio it was pretty much all I have been thinking about.

I love it. I love the spirit and the camaraderie that the sports teams of this town bring to it's people. In less than 48 hours I'll be at my usual tailgate spot. A group of us will be there overlooking the lake and beautiful Browns Stadium... eating my famous ribs, drinking from a keg of Great Lakes Commodore Perry, and enjoying the company of great friends.

LET'S GO BROWNS!

jab

How the hell do we put people to work?

2011-09-08T16:58:00.003-05:00

One man, the owner and founder of Quicken Loans, has some ideas that I think have some merit. Dan Gilbert has put his money where his mouth is, at the very least, you can't argue that. The owner of a variety of companies in Detroit, Cleveland and Columbus, he has invested in the Midwest cities and believes in the Entrepreneurial Spirit of Americans.

Ironic that we just recently celebrated Labor Day, yet zero jobs were created in the US market during the month of August. We need to put people to work, and just as important, we need people to have the want to go back to work. It is a two way street.

Not only that but we need the American public to reinvest in our country by starting businesses and taking risks in the marketplace.

As soon as I can get the owners and founders of Gasoline Alley convinced that we should open Tremont Cleveland's Gasoline Alley, I'll be participating myself. It's a no brainer and absolutely slam dunk for success in this market.

Take a look at Dan's blog http://choosethinking.com/. Great read in general, but specifically if you have a vested interest in the Midwest. My response to his idea to create jobs is the last post.

jab

Bringing the Soul at McBone

2011-09-05T19:15:00.001-05:00

Take a look at the deep-fried soul we were cooking up earlier today:

That's right. Is there any more comforting sight in the world than hot oil turning food a glorious shade of golden brown? What's that? Don't think a pasty Caucasian like me has any right to dabble in the sacred art of soul food? Think I should stick to burgers and dogs? Bet you wouldn't be saying that if you knew who our grandfather was!

My heritage really came through for us this time. The chicken was juicy and delicious. Went great with collard greens and macaroni and cheese, too.

Chew on that, KFC.

Happy Labor Day!

nwb

Letter of Love to my RHS Family

2011-09-04T17:57:00.002-05:00

So many things in life piss me off. Goverment, politics, mayonnaise, hate, cancer, etc. etc. Life can be so stressful at times that it actually becomes difficult to function. Had a slight meltdown two weeks ago in fact, I actually had to leave work....Which I NEVER do. But when I'm with my crew all is right with the world... So anyway....

I sat around the house today reflecting on how I spent my Saturday, but more specifically who I spent it with. I have a group of friends that I went to high school with that I absolutely consider a part of my family. When we are together nothing else that is happening in the world, or with our personal lives really matters. It doesn't make a difference if we haven't seen each other in two days or two years, or how many times we've talked in between. Regardless of what we're doing we are going to find a way to make it memorable. We just click, and we always have. Then most of my friends went to OU and we added an entirely new set of people to our family, and to be honest, it's like they have been there the whole time. Every time I met one of them, it was love at first sight, seriously...it was.

We celebrated Jonny Congeni's 30th birthday last night. Most of us are turning 30 this year, which is just baffling to me. It seems like we were just sneaking out of the house to TP someone's house or drink some beers at the swing. Or heading to lasertag and asking every person smoking for one cigarette till we had collected enough to fill a plastic bag. Or partying at Flanagan's house for two weeks while Aunt Dee and Dr. Pat were out of town. Our trips to Windsor were unreal. The Bowler house party freshman year which still lives in infamy. Or just torturing all of our parents in any and all ways imaginable. Insert very long and sincere apology here. There are so many amazing memories, and so many more to come as we head into the next chapters of our adult lives. I'm so proud of the people my friends have become and to the growing numbers being added through boyfriends, girlfriends, wives, husbands, kids, etc. Heard many times that you should surround yourself with the type of people that will make you successful. Well I can say without question that my posse is made up some of the most intelligent, most talented, sincere, exciting, passionate, and genuinly good human beings out there. I would not be the person I am today if not for the influence of having all these people in my life for so long.

I love you guys, and there is not a thing in the world that I wouldn't be willing to do for you.

jab

The McBone Birdwatching Journal; Birds Sighted

2011-09-03T12:35:00.001-05:00

The blinding sun made birding a challenge this morning here at the manor and at the Celery Bog, but there were some highlights mixed in there:

Great blue heron
Green heron
Hairy woodpecker
Red-headed woodpecker - Check out this elusive bird, brought to you in grainy yet breathtaking HD video:

Cardinal
Blue jay
House wren
Catbird
Goldfinch
House finch - see nature at her least majestic. Still, even the unsung female house finch deserves her 15 minutes. We give you 45 seconds in crystalline high-def video:

Female maybe, but certainly not a lady.

Mourning dove
Mallard duck
Tree swallow
Ruby-throated hummingbird
Field sparrow
Chickadee

Happy long weekend, McBoners and fellow birders!

nwb

Sprawling Wallscapes

2011-08-31T20:33:00.003-05:00

This was the view from my desk in my old office:

Old office

Spectacular, right? I know! I was loathe to say goodbye to this slice of enchantment, until I got an eyeful of the view from my desk in the new office:

New office

As if I wasn't stimulated enough! It's gonna be hard to get any work done facing this ocular smorgasbord eight hours a day.

nwb

The McBone Birdwatching Journal; Green Heron

2011-08-28T22:01:00.000-05:00

This is a low quality, super high def video of a green heron jettisoning its payload and commencing a catlike hunt for aquatic delicacies.

Note the stealthy approach, the cool poise, the utter stillness before the kill. Not sure what scared the heron off in the end. Some predatory threat? Or was it the pack of brats squealing at their negligent, texting parents?

nwb

Thomeh

2011-08-26T22:26:00.000-05:00

The Indians are not going to catch the Tigers. They showed that last week by entering a critical three-game set with their division rivals and getting very neatly swept. One week later and 6 games back in the standings, a hero of yore was summoned to save the day.

Part of me, the sentimental guy still clinging to notions of loyalty and pride, wants to like this. Thome's Hall of Fame statue will surely wear an Indians cap. He owns many club records, most importantly the all-time mark for home runs. Barring a roid scandal, his place is more or less cemented in the annals of Indian lore. After all, why not a homecoming for an icon in his twilight?

But something here stinks, because I can't forget a dude turning down the equivalent of Eritrea's GDP to make a few more bucks in Philly.

Maybe I should just turn off my cynical side and enjoy the tidiness of a reconciliation, but like I said, there's no catching Detroit. Instead of a pennant race, I see a reputation getting polished and a few more seats filled with asses.

How's it working so far? The 'Welcome T/home' signs were waving tonight. Between the DH and dollar dogs, the park was sold out.

Well played, sirs.

nwb

Season Six!

2011-08-23T21:15:00.005-05:00

As a slave to ritual, I tend to spend my summers in the grip of a prolonged malaise. While others are running and playing and finding ways to soak up vitamin D, I shutter myself in with a steady diet of Donettes, strawberry milk and internet Scrabble. With the pallor and gait of the walking dead, I shuffle back and forth between computer and fridge. Weight is added. Kidneys deteriorate. My sometimes-pregnant wife rebuffs any amorous advance in unqualified disgust.

Whence come these deep depressions? The source of my funk is easy to explain.

A typical day at Casa McGraw begins with me brewing fresh coffee and bolting straight to my MacBook. Most any time of the year I am at this glorious moment treated to a house flooded by the new rising sun and the latest few panels of our official comic strip, Welcome to Falling Rock National Park. Packed with wholesome goodness, four anthropomorphic animals and one fetching park ranger, Falling Rock, not unlike chocolate cereal, has everything a body needs.

But in the forsaken months of summer, Falling Rock goes on hiatus. I, slumming for humor elsewhere, anywhere, plunge into melancholia. I'm sure my coworkers are aware that something is off during that forlorn stretch between May and August, when a typical morning exchange goes something like this:

Coworker: G'morning!

Me: Fuck your mother.

This summer was no different, except that, at one point, my paucity of morning humor was coupled with a solid month of crippling heat. Just imagine the renewal I felt when Falling Rock opened its sixth season last week.

Exhibit #356 - Kid Shay wants a piece of Lincoln

Boy did it feel good to dust myself off. By Wednesday, I was feeling lean and mean--quite like my old self.

And the comics? Artist and partner blogger Kid Shay continues to innovate, as those of you familiar with the strip are sure to notice. Never one to sit on his laurels, the Kid is pushing his skills to the very brink by using a brush as his new inking tool. The early returns are in, and let me tell you, the fictional southwest has never looked better. Neither has my comic crush, Ranger Dee.

And for you McBoners who are late to the party, if you haven't yet made a visit to the desert park, now's the time for your first ramble! A warning to you, though: this is the stuff of addiction. Beware the long, lonely summer when Kid Shay packs up his pens, gasses up and hits the road.

nwb

Show Us Your Tats

2011-08-22T22:50:00.002-05:00

How dedicated are we to Cleveland? Just ask my brother, Stabbone, who etched the love right into his skin:

Tattoo by Brett.

nwb

Salad Days and Spronkberry Pie

2011-08-17T20:32:00.004-05:00

Strip steak, baked potato, tossed salad, corn on the cob. That's a pretty well rounded, all-American (aside from the stridently socialist beverages) meal to christen our brand new (used) dining room table. This may seem a tiny milestone hardly worth a blog post all its own, but the event marks, by my reckoning, the first time in eleven years of marriage that my sometimes-pregnant wife and I have sat down to a civilized meal in our own home.

Gone are the milk crates, plywood, cinder blocks, Scrabble board--all the makeshift stuff upon which we have ever dined. In their place are a matching table and chairs. For good measure, we busted out place mats, napkins and even the cutlery that is not plastic sporks and used chopsticks of Chinese takeout.

After a few photos, we tucked in. We both found that eating on a clean, flat surface really enhanced the meal.

Here's a piece of juicy rare perfection. And the steak looks pretty good too!

As a major bonus, I came home today to find that Spronk, of leftovers fame, had deposited a few slices of homemade blueberry pie on my desk. Here's a picture of me about to devour my all-time favorite dessert with coffee. See that frenzied gleam in my eye? That's 100% not fake.

I was nervous though. All blueberry pies share the misfortune of having to stand next to my grandmother's, rest her soul. She made the best pie of all time, almost always eaten at her dining room table with matching chairs.

How did the pie rate? 4.0 McBones. The dessert was unimpeachable, but I did not see white light while eating it. Keep trying, Spronk! Keep trying.

nwb

Everyone Wants a Piece of Lincoln; Hoosier Edition

2011-08-13T12:46:00.000-05:00

Exhibit #46. Indiana wants a piece of Lincoln.

nwb

Truckin' in Indiana, Vol. 3

2011-08-11T23:05:00.002-05:00

En route home from work, this Dodge pickup pulled in front of me with an assertive, borderline hostile maneuver. Enraged at first, my anger quickly turned to delight as I scrambled for my phone.

Can you tell why I was so eager to snap a photo?

See them? No? Well then take a closer look at the big, silver set of testicles dangling from the tailgate!

These rear-bumper nuts are the last word in good taste and sophistication, hearkening to other classy trucks I've seen. I wish now I had pulled up next to him; I know what this guy was packing in his glove box!

nwb

The McBone Birdwatching Journal; European Starlings

2011-08-10T21:38:00.002-05:00

European starlings are the bird kingdom's equivalent of the Hell's Angels. Traveling in large, noisy, packs of pure misanthropy, starlings invade a territory, bully the locals, glean every last morsel to be found and then swarm to another unsuspecting locale. True to their antisocial leanings, starlings do not warble, chirp or sing; rather they groan and growl like drunken louts looking to bust up a bar. They are graceful neither walking nor in flight, and with plumage like a parking lot oil slick, they ain't much to look at, either. Even their speckling looks like the work of a fifth-rate jailhouse tattooist.

Here is a unusually small flock of three doing what starlings do best: plunder, waddle and pillage. Check them out in spectacular HD video:

OK, so maybe we've caught them in a postgluttonous, hangover state of relative calm, but you can be sure that these ruffians are merely resting up for another day of reprobate binging.

Starlings! God may have made them, but only the devil could love them.

nwb

Shoveling the Poo

2011-08-08T22:29:00.001-05:00

So, let me get this straight: a small pack of S&P dudes sitting around a table in a Manhattan office decides that the US government runs the risk of being insolvent at some indeterminate date in the future and thus lowers its credit rating for the first time in history, a move that figured prominently today in the Dow's 600-point plunge?

Is this for real? Can so few really have so much influence?

Apparently so. I recently heard an NPR piece, The Lie that Saved Brazil, about a small group of men charged with turning around Brazil's reeling economy. They managed the feat by basically tricking the populace into believing the nation's currency was worth a damn.

Couldn't these S&P dudes have been similarly insightful? Couldn't they have gotten together with the other dudes at Moody's and Fitch's and said, hey, instead of lowering the rating, why don't we talk about how confident we are in the government's ability to pay its bills? In fact, why we don't we pretend that we're SO confident that we've devised a whole NEW rating: AAAA platinum plus...with sprinkles???

Mightn't that have given markets a shot in the arm? Couldn't the Dow instead have enjoyed a day of robust trading and growth that sent ripples through the entire economy? Couldn't it at least have slowed the bleeding? Who gives a fuck if it's true or not? I mean, aren't these dudes full of shit anyways? Aren't these the dudes who were so careful and precise in their analysis of the government's debt that they bungled their numbers by two trillion? And aren't these the dudes who have been so prophetic in their speculating that they considered no less than Enron to be a sound credit risk, right up to its infamous bloodbath of an end?

Why, dudes, why? Why did you have to choose pessimistic? If had you have no credibility to begin with, why not bullshit us in a way that might help us out of this mess?

nwb

My Father's Moustache; A McBone Memorial Salute

2011-08-07T22:15:00.003-05:00

This is my father's moustache. Note the confidence it imparts on its wearer, the way it frames his easy smile. Calm, prepossessing, here is a man completely in tune with himself and his surroundings. The picture was most certainly taken in the moments between a long, cool drag on a Pall Mall and a satisfying sip from an 18-year-old Scotch. The future is bright for the young attorney, and he knows it.

My father took a Gillette to his no. 1 asset sometime in early 1977. Though he and a generation of men could not have felt it at the time, there was in that instant a change in the wind. The decline and fall of the moustache was begun. The 1980s saw tens of millions do the unthinkable. By the time 1990 rolled around, moustaches were the domain of a persecuted few.

Let this serve as a eulogy, then, to forgotten follicles and lost dreams, and to the devil-may-care days of true American dash.

nwb

The McBone Birdwatching Journal; Ruby-throated Hummingbird

2011-08-06T00:57:00.004-05:00

This afternoon a female ruby-throated hummingbird zipped in to carbo-load at our feeder. What luck that the cameras were rolling! While she supped on the sweet, sugary nectar, we were capturing the whole thing in beautiful HD:

Clearly pleased with the concoction, the emerald lass flicks her tongue after every draught. If you blinked, you may have missed her take a shit before splitting.

Thank you, technology, for showing us nature at her most elegant.

nwb

McBone: A Field Guide

2011-08-04T22:14:00.008-05:00

For the uninitiated, McBone can be a strange, vast, almost dreamlike realm, a place where the principles of time and space have no meaning and nothing is quite what it seems. Of those McBoning for the first time, even the savviest of blog aficionados have described a feeling akin to 'floating on water' or 'tripping on acid' or 'spending too much time on the internet.' Yes, it's easy to get lost in the McBoniverse. That's why we've devised a convenient field guide* to help the novice McBoner navigate our subtle ebbs and flows.

CAST AND CREW

McGraw
Co-Captain, frequent contributor, moustache/tennis champion. Not a baby blogger.

Stabbone
Co-Captain, yearly contributor, moustache runner-up. Career oriented.

Sometimes-Popular Wife
Bride of McGraw. Editor, photographer. McGraw's blogging conscience. Sometimes pregnant.

McBonerito
McGraw progeny, rare subject of blog.

Kid Shay
Partner blogger, official cartoonist. Bearded. Married to Isis.

Slider K Shaftacular
Partner blogger, MD. Wears fleece. Believes in global warming.

M. Patrick Foliglio
Poet Laureate/ recluse. Godfather of McBonerito. Progenitor of poems (19) and children (30).

Chan Marshall
Involuntary spokeswoman.

Stephen Foliglio
Judge, jury, executioner.

The Sheffield Lake Girl
Babe. Long legs, short shorts, smoker, drinker, mother.

Mr. Sniffles
Pet. Vicious, evil, paranoid, delusional. Leans republican.

Dino
Nemesis blogger. Greek. Has ponytail. Plays soccer.

Cressica
Big game hunters, drinking partners, bad influences. Not the godparents.

McBoners
Raison d'être

RESIDENCIES

Brandon - Oudist

Than - Aquarist

Darin - Musicologist

Nikki - Chef

FORCES OF GOOD

Cleveland
Promised Land.

Akron
Home base.

Indians, Cavaliers, Browns, Monsters
1964 and counting.

Gin
Elixir of life, source of power.

Birds
Meditative, melodic. Bonk into windows.

Bob Dylan
Patron saint.

Pee-wee Herman
Court jester.

FORCES OF EVIL

Mayonnaise
Wrecker of sandwiches, salads, humanity.

Squirrels
Remorseless problem solvers. Eat food meant for birds.

George Steinbrenner
Sauron

Yankee Stadium
Mordor

New York Yankees
Orcs

GOP
All that's wrong with __________________.

McDonald's
Death camp for food. Cheap, unhealthy, atrocious.

PARTS OF SPEECH

Noun: contraction of Stabbone and McGraw, name of blog - Welcome to McBone!

Verb: the act of reading McBone - Yesterday I McBoned for 5 hours straight.

Noun: one who McBones - I'm a McBoner.

Adjective: a McBone-like state of being - That sandwich with no mayo was McBoneriffic!

Gerund: McBoning as noun - Let the McBoning begin!

We hope this handy roadmap will prove useful as you steep yourself in the edifying tides of McBone. Use it wisely and remember, in South Dakota it is illegal to McBone and drive.

nwb

*I ripped this idea off one of my partner bloggers, but that's love and theft for you.

Indianapolis, Lost City

2011-07-31T21:33:00.002-05:00

Rough weekend in the field, McBoners. A reconnaissance mission in Indianapolis this Saturday uncovered a particularly unstable fridge:

Flimsy plastic bottles and a mere refrigerator door against these levels of toxicity? Laughable. Indeed, the contamination appeared to have spilled into the otherwise pristine neighborhood, giving rise to a certain criminal element once the sun goes down.

On a completely unrelated note: to the bastards who helped themselves to our GPS last night: sure, you may be able to navigate all the roads of the world, but how will you navigate the roads of life (speaking figuratively now) when your moral GPS (moral compass of today) is obviously broken?

nwb

The Godfather

2011-07-28T22:00:00.004-05:00

McBone's Poet Laureate. The world knows him as the iconoclastic poet/recluse M. Patrick Foliglio.

We prefer to call him Godfather. As of yesterday afternoon, the irascible bard has consented to be godfather to our unborn child. It wasn't easy. Here's an excerpt of our conversation:

My sometimes-pregnant wife and I would consider it an honor if you would be godfather to our child.

What? Me? Fuck! Why me?

You're my oldest and best friend, that's why.

But you know I hate kids!

Hate kids? You have 30 of them!

That was my wives' idea, and anyway when will I have time to write if I have to be godfather all day long?

Dude, you haven't written a thing since 1982.

I had him on the ropes. I waited for an answer as he groped for excuses.

Fuck me. Fine. Fuck!

And thus he hung up. In spite of the misgivings, we know the McBonerito will enjoy a wonderful, warm bond with his godfather. While it is true Foliglio is known for a rough exterior and a relationship with society that could best be described as erratic, only a soul at peace could have conceived of the lilting beauty behind this sample from his trailblazing Diz-aster Book of Poems:

hawk in the sky

hawk in the sky
can fly very high
hawk in the sky
can fly so high
hawk in the sky
can fly as high
as the high sky

The simple, soaring words of an artist in his prime. Written at the height of Cold War tensions and under the influence of quaaludes and crème de menthe, this lone 'hawk' in the sky has been said to represent the deadly, determined flight of a nuclear weapon. The image is an example of the poet at his ironic best. Eschewing the blunt conventionality of a mushroom cloud or smoldering crater, the artist instead captures the terrible potential of a warhead unleashed against a sky suffused with pristine blue.

Beauty in death. Ruin exalted. Like a mouse in a field, Moscow waits unsuspecting for the hawk to descend.

In spite of appearances, the outward paranoia, the suspicion, the Don't Tread on Me ethos, I know a true mentor resides in the soul of the Godfather. Can't wait to show the kid the compound!

nwb

Amazing Larry Sighted!

2011-07-25T20:05:00.001-05:00

Who is Amazing Larry? That question has baffled us for years. All we know for sure is that he was once on the shortlist of candidates for vice president. Before that he had a brief but memorable cameo in 1985's Pee-wee's Big Adventure:

Since then? Nothing. Aside from his abbreviated foray into politics and one moment of unequivocal greatness, we have very little knowledge of this enigmatic, yet clearly Amazing, man.

Until today:

At roughly 5:45 PM I spotted a man I believe to be Amazing Larry standing outside our front window. I can report to you that Amazing Larry is alive and currently working for a West Lafayette tree service. He spent most of July 25th stripping our oaks and maples of their foliage and sucking down what appeared to be Basic Filters. Oh, he's a bit leaner in 2011 and his Mohawk is a little worse for wear, but that often happens when you ditch the pampered glitz of Hollywood for a life of manual labor.

Luckily, I had the presence of mind to snap a quick photo. Moments later, as in decades past, he was gone. Where and when he will turn up next is anyone's guess.

Amazing indeed.

nwb

You Win, Boehner

2011-07-24T21:45:00.000-05:00

Speaker Boehner,

You've made it abundantly clear in recent negotiations (or lack thereof) with the White House that you do not represent the destitute, the sick, the elderly, the middle class, the working class or minorities. By my calculations (and I'm an accounting clerk), that makes up all but a microfraction of the US population.

So, I have to assume that your congressional home base is populated by tycoons. Is that right? Is your constituency made up of executive VPs and CEOs? Is the 8th District of Ohio a haven for oil barons, investment bankers and defense contractors? Do the 400 richest Americans who suckle at the teat of the American populace all reside in western Ohio?

Of course fucking not, which makes you an absolute and irredeemable wanker!

You need to explain why only those who can't afford it are being asked by your party to make a sacrifice. How's that? Raising taxes is a job killer? OK, fair enough. We'll make you a deal: for the time being, you win. The richest Americans will be excused from a modest Clinton era tax hike. However, failure of the unemployment rate to drop 50% by the end of 2012 will bump you into a somewhat beefier, Eisenhower era tax hike.

Top Marginal Tax Rate

Current - 35%

Clinton - 39.6%

Eisenhower - 92.0%

Ouch! How's that for an incentive? I think you can agree that this seems a pretty surefire way to ensure that the job creators actually create jobs.

So what do you say? Sound reasonable? Good! Ready? Then shake hands with Obama, cut spending, raise the goddam debt ceiling and let the trickle down begin!

Oh, and on a side note, please lay off the eyeliner. Not that we object, but it sends a confusing message to LGBT communities, which you also do not represent.

Thanks,

Rock McGraw

nwb

More Truckin' in Indiana

2011-07-20T19:59:00.002-05:00

At some point, roughly two years from now, my sometimes-pregnant wife will graduate from Purdue and it will be time to leave Indiana behind. There are many people and things that I'll miss from the Hoosier State, but I don't think I'll miss anything quite like our view from the front window. I can tell you there is simply nothing better in the morning than a hot cup of coffee, the first light of day and this breathtaking panorama:

Personally, I know of no prettier sight than a Ford in the lawn.

Keep truckin' Indiana.

nwb

Audubone and McGraw?

2011-07-19T19:12:00.000-05:00

McBoner Steven made an astute observation when he called us an Audubon for the digital age. Here's a closer look at the immature red-bellied, filmed using the latest in crystal-clear HD technology:

Eat your heart out John James.

nwb

The McBone Birdwatching Journal: Now in HD

2011-07-18T21:50:00.008-05:00

So, I was talking to my buddy Jim on the phone the other day and lamenting the abysmal quality of my nature photography. He seemed pretty distracted, which probably meant he was in the editing room or something, but I have to admit to being slightly hacked off at his apparent lack of interest in my problem. Well, perhaps I was too hard on the guy, because when I came home from work yesterday I found a package on the doorstep. Boy was I surprised to discover that ol' Jimmy had sent me one of his spares! Now, thanks to technology (and the filmmaking savvy of my sometimes-pregnant wife), you can watch our videos in stunning SUPER HIGH DEFINITION:

This immature red-bellied woodpecker, whose youthful exuberance is captured here in crisp, clear HD imagery, has been picking at a luscious cake of nuts and seeds for the past several days. Note the head, conspicuously lacking the trademark red cap it will develop in maturity, and the sheen of wide-eyed curiosity as first a moth and then a house finch zip by.

Ah, enjoy these moments, innocent fledgling, and a word of advice: the squirrels are watching, so feast, feast while you can!*

nwb

*Too late. They got it

Of Birds n' Booze

2011-07-16T16:52:00.002-05:00

As it turns out, yesterday's luna moth indeed prophesied good things to come. Lately I've been prowling some of Lafayette's best birding turf in search of a red-headed woodpecker. My persistence paid dividends today when we were treated to not one but two stunning examples of Melanerpes erythrocephalus. For 20 minutes we watched as a mating pair circled Celery Bog in search of succulent, six-legged sustenance. As if that wasn't enough, we officially achieved woodpecker nirvana when two pileated woodpeckers came bopping along. I could hardly believe my luck and was almost surprised that an ivory-billed didn't turn up, just for the hell of it.

Now I invite you to enjoy these pictures of me drinking a Booth's martini on the rocks with a twist and three olives. Notice the sweating glass, my quavering hand, and five elements--gin, vermouth, ice, citrus, olive--merging in beverage perfection. What a miracle I was able to hold the camera steady:

Over the years I've cultivated a certain skill in mixing very excellent martinis. That is not meant to be a boast but the recognition of a lifelong pursuit come to fruition. But where I really excel is in drinking a martini. Call it a vocation, a genius even. We all have our talents; I'm one of the lucky few to have realized his early in life.

Happy Saturday, everyone!

nwb

The McBone Bugwatching Journal; A Great Big Green Winged Creature

2011-07-15T22:10:00.001-05:00

This, easily the biggest bug I've ever seen, came bonking against our window with enough force for me to wonder what kind of bird was trying to get in. Twice the size of a hummingbird and just as beautiful, the exhausted insect rested long enough on the front stoop for me to shoot a few photos with my favorite tool of espionage, the 'camera phone.'

What can this be but a really good Friday omen?

Goodnight, friends, and happy weekend.

nwb

Life at Fiddy

2011-07-12T22:07:00.003-05:00

Gentle McBoners,

A couple of days ago McBone quietly surpassed the 50 billion hit mark, making us by far the most important cultural phenomenon since canned ravioli. That's all thanks to you (and me obsessively refreshing every 30 seconds), and your continued allegiance to a blog that cut its teeth defending social justice. We've kept up that important work and remain bound to our mission of crushing evil wherever it rears its ugly head.

We've packed a lot of crap into this fucker over the years. Always we seek ways we can expand our boundaries in a quest to build a more peaceful, inclusive future. Still, we have our limitations, and there are some things that McBone will never contain:

Advertisements. We vow that this operation will never be driven by capitalism in any way, ever.

Baby blogging

Emulsified eggs and oil

Heat trapping gasses

Tax cuts for trillionaires

Midichlorians

Celebrations of Derek Jeter milestones

Olestra

Posts written by my brother

I could use this space to opine further on why health care is a right in any humane nation, or why Cleveland is the greatest city on earth, or what it will take for that city to win a title, or why marriage is a sacred union between one man and one woman--except when it isn't, or how our earth is going to whither and die unless we do something about it, but instead I think I'll take a time out to say thanks! to anyone who has ever taken the time to read a post since we got this ball rolling one cold February morn back in aught-seven.

nwb

Beetlemania

2011-07-09T20:51:00.001-05:00

This Japanese beetle doesn't know it, but the wrath of McBone is about to descend up on it. That's a shame really, because Japanese beetles, with their green and bronze carapaces, are among the lovelier bugs in the insect kingdom.

If only they weren't so gluttonous.

That's the leaf from my Concord vine that I found this fellow munching on. Japanese beetles are one of the great grapevine scourges in all of viticulture. An infestation can defoliate entire vineyards in a matter of minutes--think of the proverbial cow-meets-piranha scenario. No leaves means no photosynthesis. That's bad news for everyone--grapes, vine and wino alike.

The pest is difficult to control on a commercial operation. Luckily, a single vine is easy to manage--just pluck up a lunching bug with the thumb and forefinger apply the right amount of pressure...

nwb

What Recession?

2011-07-08T19:31:00.003-05:00

Take a look at this awesome clout and tell me what's wrong here:

Nothing wrong at all with a game winning grand slam with one out in the bottom of the ninth. That's just about the most exciting play in all of professional sports. If only someone had been there to see it.

Yes it's true that I hate the Dolan ownership group, but I'm wondering if anyone in NE Ohio has checked the AL Central standings lately:

Cleveland     47 - 39

Detroit     47 - 42

Chicago      43 - 46

Minnesota     39 - 47

Kansas City   36 - 52

That's FIRST place, people. In July. The vast desert that is the upper deck is no longer acceptable. The hell with the owners. Celebrate the players and this pennant race, whatever it amounts to in the end.

Get to the park!

nwb

The McBone Not-a-Baby-Blog Challenge

2011-07-05T22:23:00.004-05:00

Sorry, my creepy looking son. It's timeout time for you.

At a tequila-soaked social gathering this past weekend, I was informed by several of the guests that posting twice about a burgeoning child officially makes any blog, regardless of how many years of non-baby blogging it has in the bank, a certified (and dreaded) 'baby blog.' I was also told in no uncertain terms that titling a post 'Not a Baby Blog' does not negate the fact that the subsequent post is about the baby.

Aghast, I sought an escape from this doom: What will it take to not be a baby blog again?

There's nothing you can do.

What if I post 10 consecutive non-baby posts?

Maybe, but--

But you don't think I have what it takes.

No, and until you somehow manage, we'll be holding on to these...

To my horror, I discovered these besotted miscreants had somehow come into possession of my testicles, suspended in a briny liquid within a sealed mayonnaise jar.

So here we stand, McBoners. It appears that not even my triumph at Wimbledon the following day can help me get my mojo back. Thus ten baby-free posts are to follow. I hereby endeavor to have all qualifiers effaced from my good blogging name until this baby blog is, once more, merely a blog.

nwb

Xalam Project

2011-06-30T22:37:00.006-05:00

Brandon Terzic is one of my oldest and best friends, a fellow veteran of the Akron Public School system with all the scars and residual trauma to prove it. Like the great bluesmen of yore, he's managed to summon his anguish and frustration and turn it into a musical phenomenon for the ages. How does that happen to a skinny white kid from Akron? I'll remind you that Firestone High School, not unlike the Mississippi Delta, is one of the legendary breeding grounds of great musicians. The release of Xalam Project indicates that there must be more to that West Akron water than fluoridation and heavy metals. Yes, Akron has served as a launching pad for a number of first-rate acts, but Brandon's journey to this point is unique, one steeped in many lands and cultures and all the winding roads he's traveled down.

Our friendship has always been centered in part around music. He introduced me to Jimi Hendrix, not just user-friendly hits like Purple Haze, but the dark, brooding blues, funk and soul found in Band of Gypsys. Hoping to repay that immense debt, I mixed for him tapes of choice Dylan songs. While other guys were trying their damnedest to hang out with girls, we exiled ourselves to my parent's house with a CD player, a jug of Minute Maid fruit punch and our latest score from the local record store. There were some miscues along the way, but John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Robert Johnson, Mozart and Beethoven proved milestone discoveries and lasting companions.

While laying that foundation of influence, Brandon was becoming more proficient on his Stratocaster. Often of a Friday night, he and his band could be heard electrifying the dingy haunts of Highland Square, turning half-dead saloons into, at least for a few hours, hallowed blues houses. Though it would seem an easy jump from basement bar to major record deal, somewhere along the line our prodigy gave it up, relocated to New York and rode the tech surge to a full-time job. That move may seem an aberration considering that most musicians move to New York to pursue, not abandon, their artistic endeavors, not until Brandon quit the job and made a few transitional transatlantic journeys--Israel, Cyprus, Morocco, Senegal, Egypt--was his calling renewed. Only now he was experimenting with the sounds and instruments of the regions. Gone was the Strat, replaced by distant stringed cousins the oud, the ngani, the saz.

His return to New York saw him having to grind out a living as a subway performer. Though dwindling coffers and an inability to find steady work and may seem like a bottoming out, I would argue that the fetid platforms of the Manhattan mass transit system were as formative a training ground as the streets of Egypt. He could easily have packed up and headed back family and friends in Akron. He did not. And here we are.

I'm not sure how one goes about writing a proper music review (I continue to rebuff job offers from Rolling Stone), and so here is a simple, unequivocal, stone-cold endorsement of a powerful debut. Xalam Project is a tour de force that I have spun dozens of times and gotten just a cursory peek into the wealth of surprises housed within a ten-track production. Emotional to its core and yet intellectual enough to satisfy the snootiest jazz enthusiast, the band packs in something for everyone into these generous instrumentals. Xalam Project is neither predictable nor inaccessible. Fans of jazz, blues, funk, rock and world music will feel right at home because Brandon has not confined himself to one style. He avoids the trappings of esoterica by surrounding himself with a top flight band of diversely talented musicians:

Matt Kilmer - percussion

Matt Darriau - sax

John Shannon - guitar

Peter Slavov - bass

None of them hails from Akron, but all of these boys can play, and thus there is not a single dud to be found on the album. Am I biased? Certainly, but I wouldn't be writing this post if I didn't mean every word. I implore you to buy a copy from Amazon or download it on itunes. Put on a pair of headphones and immerse yourself in a world that is both here and there, grounded and transient, East and West, earthbound and intergalactic. You know this album, and yet it is entirely new. Jimi, Coltrane, Miles, Eddie Hazel, Led Zeppelin, Toumani Diabate, Peter Gabriel, the Delta, Cuba, Senegal, Islam...I hear all of these sounds and places and influences and more, not rehashed but amplified through the creative channels of five superb musicians.

Buy Xalam Project and see why I give my buddy's album 5.0 McBones.

nwb

Not a Baby Blog II

2011-06-26T20:43:00.004-05:00

In Venezuela there's an expression that says a baby is born carrying bread under its arm. Not sure what that means or who would even want a loaf of bread dripping with amniotic juices, but I can tell you that the house has been filling up in a hurry with all manner of baby-related objects. Here are just a few of the things that have appeared as if by magic ever since my sometimes-pregnant wife announced to the world that she was with child:

Orb. We have no idea where it came from or what its purpose is or why all the fish and plants have died since the orb's mysterious appearance a few weeks ago.

Baby books. There are countless books about birthing methods and child rearing and about a billion experts ready to tell you that your child will certainly become a homicidal maniac if you don't follow their proven methods.

Giant pillow. Each night this massive, hypoallergenic pillow forms the foundation of a pillow fort that my wife constructs around herself at bedtime, effectively reducing my share of the mattress to a three-inch sliver.

Bigger, better wife. What could be better than having a cheeseburger? A bigger cheeseburger, of course. The same principle applies to foxy wives. She's growing at an astonishing rate and every millimeter added to her middle section makes her that much foxier.

nwb

Good Week

2011-06-24T21:53:00.005-05:00

Damned good week all around. I suppose one could say that things are blowin' up here in the McBoniverse. Some highlights:

-Felt the McBonerito move for the first time, a good swift kick to my sometimes-pregnant wife's lower abdomen.

-Sometimes-pregnant wife passed dissertation prospectus, vaulting herself into official PhD candidacy.

-Now being followed on Twitter by our involuntary spokeswoman, Chan Marshall.

-No diarrhea.

-Cavs got better.

-Amazing shrimp boil prepared by our doula to celebrate doula's b-day.

-Four life birds: song sparrow, field sparrow, common yellowthroat, dickcissel.

-Obliterated the five-minute 0.7 mile mark.

-Awesome Friday Robots.

-New York legalized gay marriage (learned from a Chan Marshall Tweet). Forty-four states to go!

Now we're winding things down with some Jimmie Rodgers and I'll be mixing a martini about 20 seconds after publishing this post. For one seven-day span, that will be hard to top, but prospects are excellent heading into the weekend.

Have a good one, McBoners.

nwb

Mock Draft

2011-06-24T07:00:00.001-05:00

As a loyal fan of Cleveland sports, I'm given, nay, I'm obligated, without really understanding what we did to deserve it, to believe in curses. Long, drawn out, decades-long curses. The silver lining is that I also get to believe that curses are meant to be broken. By choosing Kyrie Irving with the number one pick in the NBA draft tonight, the Cavaliers are hoping to smash two bad luck trends to microscopic bits:

1) The Cleveland championship drought - 1964 and counting.

2) The Duke point guard curse. Johnny Dawkins with his crumby knees and mediocre NBA career represents the best of them.

I quietly shook my head when ESPN draft coverage opened with a clip of Michael Jordan hitting his goddam game winner over Craig Ehlo--some programmer with a morbid sense of humor poking a finger into the permanent festering wound of the Cleveland devotee. Then I had to wince when Irving was selected, ascended the dias and put on what is probably the ugliest cap I've ever seen. Can an ugly hat really prophesy the quality of a player's career and the future of a sports franchise? That I would even consider such a possibility must mean I'm a hopeless Cleveland fan. Ah, what the hell. We got the best guard in the draft, and probably the best all around player. Good. Great. I love it. Fucking hat.

Then, following Minnesota's pick of Derrick Williams (crammed into a suit that would comfortably fit my 6' 165 lb frame) and Utah's choice of the big Turk Enes Kanter, the Cavs selected, um, Tristan Thompson.

Excuse me? Who? And why? And wtf???

I do not accept this pick. Not at #4. The line on Thompson is that he's a high energy defender, rebounder and shot blocker. He also has a very limited offensive repertoire and shoots an alarming 49% from the line--not so good for an around the rim type of player who likes to mix it up in the paint. I'm being pessimistic I know, but this doesn't this guy have 'journeyman' written all over him? Oh, he's also touted as a character guy, and I remember all too vividly the halcyon days of Gund Brothers ownership, when loading up on character guys was paramount.

Could it be that GM Chris Grant would use the fourth overall pick on a destined backup forward? Sure. I've seen the Cavs botch too many drafts to put it past them.

Then again...NO! A grand scheme has to be in the works. The Cavs now have 5 power forwards, 5 point guards and not enough minutes to go around. Something's gotta give. JJ Hickson, the Cavs just sent you a message--you and your low b-ball IQ are living on borrowed time. If you please, score us another unconditional first round pick from the Clippers. Thanks!

Round 2

With the 32nd pick in the draft, the Cavs selected Justin Harper out of Richmond...and then promptly traded him to Orlando for two future second-round picks.

The 54th pick in the draft resulted in burly Croat Milan Macvan, whom analysts described as a 'below the rim' 'bull in a china shop,' and someone they weren't sure we will ever see don an NBA jersey.

So that's that.

It's still early.

Months to go before the season maybe starts.

Sigh.

Go Cavs.

nwb

Serial Hedge Trimmer Strikes Again

2011-06-19T19:31:00.000-05:00

Today I spent 2 hours pulling weeds and trimming trees in response to the slightly psychotic action taken by a neighbor yesterday.

To me there are better ways to make a grievance known. A note in the mailbox? A friendly knock on the door? I suppose I'm a little old fashioned that way. Anyway, I get it. Things were overgrown. The sidewalk was crowded. I leaped to action.

Apparently my gesture of reconciliation wasn't enough:

The first time was amusing. Now this shit's real. It takes a lot to summon the rage of McGraw, but if I see this reptile sniffing around our yard again with his clippers, he's going to have to extract these razor sharp blades of decorative grass one by one from his ass.

nwb

Hormones, Meet Mr. Jackman

2011-06-18T23:04:00.002-05:00

Pregnancy, it's a strange and mysterious thing. This trailer for the movie about boxing robots (which I will absolutely, 100% see in theaters), brought my sometimes-pregnant wife to tears. For real!

Then again, with dialogue like this, who can blame her?

Kid: What are we looking for?

Dad: Anything I can use to put a fighting robot together!

Powerful stuff indeed.

nwb

Serial Hedge Trimmer Strikes West Lafayette Lawn

2011-06-18T19:06:00.006-05:00

Today, as my sometimes-pregnant wife and I were outdoors reading on a glorious 75-degree Saturday afternoon, an old man came striding along the sidewalk with a pair of hedge clippers. Following a long, icy glare in our direction, he went on the offensive, snipping away any plant life that had dared encroach from our yard into public space. Clearly this codger saw it as is duty to keep the walkways of West Lafayette free of impediments. He wasn't messing around, either. Snip first, ask questions later--that was his style. After a furious few seconds of pruning, he was gone in a trail of dust.

I wasn't sure how to react. Should I have upbraided the old vulture and run him off? It's true that I'm not the best about maintaining the verge, but I can't help thinking this slightly deranged ancient was overstepping his rights as a fellow citizen and neighbor. I'll be honest, though; potential senility in combination with sharp garden implements gives me pause. I didn't want to get too close lest I have a new haircut inflicted on me. Also, I was drinking beer, and therefore mellow.

The wife and I laughed it off. Was I right to play the amused spectator? Should I be more protective of the verdure in the future? As always, I defer to your wisdom, McBoners.

nwb

Not a Baby Blog

2011-06-17T21:37:00.001-05:00

Just thought some of you might be interested in a good look at a fetal spine and a heart pump, pump, pumping away at 140 beats/minute, or roughly half as fast as Dad's was racing after today's 0.7 mile run (with a gut full of hamburger, fries and beer).

nwb

5:43:97

2011-06-16T21:10:00.002-05:00

In 1954, Roger Bannister ran a mile in less than four minutes, a barrier that many considered beyond the capacity of the human body. They said it couldn't be done. He said 'fuck you' and clocked a 3:59.4 right in their faces. In honor of that indomitable spirit, and in the name of not dying of coronary heart disease before my son reaches his teens, I decided to go for a little jog yesterday.

5:43:97. That's exactly the time it took to haul my dead-legged carcass across 0.7 miles--exactly the distance from our driveway to the entrance of Happy Hollow Park and back again--of mostly flat terrain. By the time my 'run' was over, I was cursing Roger Bannister and his lunatic, ego-driven need show the world what a great big fucking deal he was.

Then, as I slumped to the grass, something funny happened. My oxygen rich blood made its way to my brain. I was swept into a nether realm of strange colors and geometric shapes. I was full of energy and thinking clearly for first time in years. Suddenly I had visions of the man I could be.

I wanted more. That's when I decided to launch, as an alternative to the more recognized exercise regimes of the world, a personal campaign to shatter the five-minute 0.7 mile barrier. I call it the McBone 0.7 Mile Challenge!

Keep in mind that I haaate running. I've heard long distance runners speak of the mythical 'runner's high,' a state of being in which all sense of pain and exertion are displaced by some sort of endorphin-rich surge of energy and even, dare I say it, enlightenment. I confess that, in all the miles I ran in a four-year career on the Firestone High School cross country team, I never once came close to experiencing this sensation. Scarcely can I remember a moment when running long distances that I wasn't desperately wanting the ordeal to end. Why the hell did I do it year after year? I don't fucking know. Why am I doing this now, when I was on the cusp of achieving an almost perfectly sedentary lifestyle? Beats me. All I know is my quest began today, with startling results.

5:28:17

I realize that I can hardly expect to shave off 15+ seconds every time I lace up the New Balances, and I am aware that running farther than 0.7 miles on a regular basis would do wonders in shrinking my time, but let me reemphasize how much I hate running. My lone incentive, other than setting a good example for the McBonerito, is to shorten these daily torture sessions little by little until they are barely more than a five minute afterthought in my day. Inspiring, right? I know! Don't think I can do it? My hero Roger Bannister has a finger he would like to show you.

Oh, and by the way, when I say 'daily,' that does not mean I will never miss a day. On the days that I do attempt to establish a personal best, I will post my time on a 'widget' on this blog's handy sidebar.

All those wishing to join me, I say misery loves company. Feel free to post your own times in the comment section!

nwb

The McBone Birdwatching Journal; Birds Sighted

2011-06-12T22:43:00.000-05:00

Downy woodpecker

This weekend featured some first-rate birding, both here at McBone Manor and at Celery Bog Park.

Here's what we sighted:

Robin

Hairy woodpecker (2 pairs)

Mourning dove

House finch

Chipping sparrow

Some kind of thrush. Hell if I could figure out which one.

Goldfinch

Downy woodpecker

Chickadee

Blue-Gray gnatcatcher

Cardinal

Blue jay

Tufted titmouse

White-breasted nuthatch

Catbird

Ruby-throated hummingbird

Red-winged blackbird

Bluebird

Cedar waxwing

Orchard oriole*

Baltimore oriole

Grackle

Starling

Kingbird

Chimney swift

Eastern phoebe

Tree swallow

Crow

*I was especially delighted to have seen an orchard oriole for the first time in my birdwatching career. Contending with a flock of cedar waxwings for some ripe tree berries, the brick-red oriole burst through the foliage and perched on a bare branch long enough for me to realize I had no idea what it was. Luckily, my Golden guide was on hand to help me rack up a life bird.

In other birding news, our gray squirrel population has taken to openly mocking me, evacuating the feeders only when within arm's length of their imbecilic enemy and resuming their feast as quickly as the door shuts behind me.

nwb

Eye of Newt

2011-06-12T00:55:00.006-05:00

Callista zeroes in on a doomed photographer.

With her unnatural coif of molded plastic and a glare capable of liquefying the insides of political foes, I must confess that, as terrifying as the words 'Gingrich Administration' sound, I'm far more terrified of Newt Gingrich's maniacal third wife, Callista.

Until now, I would have said that the wholesale evacuation of Candidate Gingrich's campaign staff was due to irreconcilable differences, or his dubious electability, or his seeming reluctance to hit the campaign trail in earnest, or the fact that his political life keeled over and died 15 years ago.

But after catching a glimpse of the prodigal son's witch-queen and the lunatic grin on her blood-smeared craw, I began to have some doubts. While my political philosophy may be at odds with that of Newt's team, I never for a second wished the staffers any actual physical harm. I fear their rumored disgruntlement may have cost them dearly.

To anyone wanting to solve the case of their mysterious disappearance, I suggest you take a close look at Callista's leavings.

nwb

Cookie Crisis

2011-06-10T23:01:00.001-05:00

We were just wrapping up what seemed an uneventful meal of Chinese carryout when I cracked open this cryptic fortune cookie:

I was baffled, and wanted more. Per the cookie's advice, I visited the website, only to be informed that 'the domain name expired on 6/5/2011.' Can it be that my fortune cookie fortune has expired too? Is my destiny not only unintelligible but moot as well? Should I play the lucky numbers in this week's mega lotto? I don't know a goddam thing anymore.

As usual during times of existential crisis, I turned to my sometimes-pregnant wife. She suggested that maybe the words 'a strong woman' had been omitted from the second phrase. Possibly, but that would mean an irreconcilable clash between subject and verb. Not likely, knowing what careful grammarians Chinese fortune tellers are. No, I believe I am meant to take this as is, heaven help me.

How about it, McBoners? Is there a deconstructionist in the audience? You're my only hope.

nwb

Drumroll Please

2011-06-09T22:56:00.001-05:00

Don't hide the kids, McBoners. What you're looking at is no hideous, eyeless, gape-mouthed demon from the sulfur wastes of hell. On the contrary, my sometimes-pregnant wife had her first ultrasound today. After squeezing a copious blob of warm goop on the distended belly, our genial technician (sitting in what looked to me like a space shuttle cockpit) began the fateful probe with her magic wand. Nervously we watched as a silvery image of our child appeared on the screen.

The ensuing exchange went something like this:

Ultrasound Technician: So what do you guys think it is?

Us: (In unison) Girl.

Tech: (After making a game show buzzer sound) WRONG!!!

Wrong indeed. From the deepest, darkest, happiest depths come these images of our son, William Miguel:

By all accounts, WM is healthy, active and absolutely, unequivocally a boy (junk not pictured):

For those of you not satisfied with mere photographic documentation of the McBonerito, enjoy some video footage of the squirmy little rascal. Look close and you can see his little heart chugging away:

There is no describing what one feels upon seeing a child for the first time, so I won't bother with any grandiose or florid narrative. I'm not trying to make you barf, after all.

Suffice it to say you cry.

nwb

Rock McGraw's 115th Dream

2011-06-08T19:37:00.006-05:00

Normally I would think twice before blogging about a dream I had. Dreams, which rarely follow (at least for me) a cohesive or linear narrative pattern, tend to be far less interesting to the listener than the dreamer might want to believe. Generally, if I'm going to share my nocturnal imaginings, I make sure that the listener was actually in the dream. That more or less guarantees an attentive audience. I also try to limit the anecdote to a sentence or two, as in: I had dream you were murdered last night.

This will be longer than a sentence, but I hope you will indulge me, McBoners. The dream was just so awesome on a personal level that I wanted to commit it to internet permanence.

In my dream, my sometimes-pregnant wife and I were hanging out with Kris Kristofferson. I don't know why, or what we were doing. I like to think we were drinking bourbon and singing songs, but that may just be wishful thinking. What I do remember is that, all of a sudden, Kris Kristofferson stood up and informed us that he would have to be leaving. Apologetically, he said but I'd like to give you this before I go. He pulled from his pack an especially large cut of raw flank steak, all hygienically wrapped in plastic. It comes from a cow that I raised and slaughtered myself. This should grill up real nice for you folks.

With that, the grizzled bard was gone. The significance? Those well versed in dreams and the subconscious mind would probably have an opinion. Me, I'm not sure it's anything more than a simple desire for the world I live in to be populated by aging troubadours who can appreciate a good cut of beef when they see one.

nwb

Meet the McBonemobile II

2011-06-05T21:07:00.006-05:00

It was with no small measure of sadness that we said goodbye last week to a faithful friend. Though the McBonemobile was known by many names in many parts, we called her Serafina Pekkala, after the powerful witch of the His Dark Materials saga (and with a nod to the bewitching actor who translated the role to film). Like a storm-heavy cloud Serafina patrolled the roads of West Lafayette, ready at all times to unleash her merciless form of justice.

Yes our little Honda served us well in nearly 4 years together. She was good to us, even if we didn't always do right by her:

Serafina, meet mailbox. Mailbox, Serafina

The old gal could've gone another billion miles for sure, but with a half-baked bun in the oven, it was time to trade our two door coup for something more practical. Behold this red-hot hunk of a 2008 Kia Rondo, the McBonemobile 2.0, aka Fawkes:

Parked at McBone HQ in Akron, OH

Named by my sometimes-pregnant wife for the incendiary phoenix of the Harry Potter septrilogy,* Fawkes offers the quadruple advantage of breakneck speed, state-of-the-art gadgetry, world-class safety and sophisticated style and comfort. Best of all, this low-mileage used vehicle has a clean history. The previous owner must have been a really responsible, down-to-earth person.

Like a caged eagle, the McBonemobile idles impatiently in the driveway, practically begging for the chance to dig his talons into the rodent scum of Tippecanoe County.

Though the name Kia may not call to mind some of the sexier autos of the world, this fella packs a more than a few surprises:

-Powerful 550 hp, V-12 engine

-Room for 7 adults (or 5 Americans)

-Flux capicitor/MP3 jack

-100% Squirrelskin interior

-Taco bar

-GPS system voiced by, depending on gender or sexual orientation of driver, Zooey Deschanel or James McAvoy.

A few demerits are warranted for decreased fuel efficiency, but we will attempt to limit our carbon footprint by eliminating a few wasteful luxury items from our lives (planetarium, electric refrigerator).

Watch out, villains of Indiana; the blood-dimmed tide has been loosed on yo asses.

nwb

*I like Harry Potter. Sue me.

Friday Gobots

2011-06-03T21:22:00.001-05:00

No, they're no Friday Robots, but it's the best we got.

Happy Friday, McBoners.

nwb

The McBone Birdwatching Journal; The Dark Side of Feeding Birds

2011-06-02T20:51:00.004-05:00

The downside of keeping feeders is a significant one indeed. Luring birds to a residence makes them occasional targets for hawks and cats. More often, some poor soul will take wing and chart a course toward a pane of glass. Usually, the victim will shake it off and set sail with no harm done. Others aren't so lucky.

The sickening, unmistakable thud of bird hitting house at full tilt had me running to the front window. My fears were confirmed when I saw the female house finch twitching in the grass. Right away I knew what the score was; I had seen it before.

Because it was my fault that this poor finch was suffering, I was intent on the death throes not being drawn out. Armed with a shovel, I went outside to finish the job--one fatal thwack would do the trick.

And yet, as she lay there stunned and slightly bloodied on the crown, a cognizant glint in her eye made me hesitate. I could not inflict a death blow just yet. Instead, a sudden impulse had me scooping her up and taking her inside:

For a moment, she seemed to be fading, and thus drained away all hope. When she loosed her bowels in my hands, I was sure she was bound for her final nesting place. Shadows filled the room. The end was nigh.

Despairing, I relaxed my grip and, lo!, with a flurry of violent flaps, she was airborne, careening off the ceiling and walls as if our bird bath had been filled with liquor. Our brave finch did not elude me for long. I quickly corralled her and had her back out in the misty morning. She was free to go, but even after the surge of energy, she seemed reticent to fly. I sat and I let her perch on my hand, where she stayed for a solid ten minutes. We had an understanding: I would not harm her, and she would not summon an angry flock to peck out my eyes.

At last, feeling up to the challenge, she tested her navigational controls and risked the short distance to a neighboring bush--without a hitch.

There she remained, until, one half hour later, she took a confident, undulating path toward the woods. I was sorry her bell was rung so severely, but overjoyed that she escaped the fate that has doomed too many of her kind.

Soar on, house finch, and beware the invisible walls of McBone Manor!

nwb

A Memorial Day to Remember

2011-05-31T23:11:00.012-05:00

M. Patrick Foliglio

For Memorial Day weekend, my sometimes-pregnant wife and I were granted a rare privilege: the gates of the vast Bowling Green compound, the very, very private property of our own Poet Laureate M. Patrick Foliglio, would be opened in an unprecedented display of friendship and trust. Provided we passed some preliminary screenings (microbes, radioactivity), permission would be given (after a 24-hour quarantine) to spend the holiday with the artist, his many wives and ~30 sons.

With all screenings negative, and having surrendered contraband items (cell phones, leftist propaganda*) at the gate, we were led through a narrow, walled-in drive (or 'kill zone,' as the poet affectionately named it). Finally, after a quick retinal scan, we gained entry to the forested expanse.

"Mi casa su casa," said Foliglio through his surgical mask, and admonished me to stay away from his guns, wives and a small concrete outbuilding he called 'Bunker no. 5.' Otherwise, we had the run of the place!

Bunker no. 5

Well, I am happy to report that life inside the compound, while certainly militant, secretive and paranoid, is not without its gentle and harmonious side. Here three of the Foliglio progeny enjoy a dip in the Olympic-sized pool.

Matthew, Jackson and Cameron Foliglio, after 300 mandatory laps

And here Myrtle Foliglio and my wife take a break from a long discussion about our manifold deficiencies as husbands:

'Mine's lazy.' 'Mine too!'

As far as parenting goes, Foliglio and wives earn a solid A+!** Yes, the cistern was contaminated with sea monkeys and the Lego bunk beds seemed a bit wobbly, but there ain't a one of the little buggers who doesn't know his role in the event of an Obamunist takeover.

Part of 12 obligatory hours of daily training

Ah, we'll miss the stark, mountainous landscapes of Bowling Green, as well as the cloistered mode of living that our hosts have perfected. In the name of seclusion, we here present a vital part of the Foliglio canon, which first appeared in 1982's Diz-aster Book of Poems:

Where is the world?

Hey out there.
where is the world!
I want to know whats
going on here. There arent
any children or anybody just
tell me What, Never mind
forget it.

nwb

*HOPE bumper sticker

**This post has been edited for content by M. Patrick Foliglio, Inc

Million Dollar B-Day Bash

2011-05-25T23:06:00.006-05:00

Clipping from my first Dylan concert, 1992

In honor of the former Robert Zimmerman's 70th birthday, Rolling Stone published yet another of its moronic lists: 'The 70 Greatest Dylan Songs.' Compiled by an expert panel of 13 white men, the list consists of short blurbs treating mostly, from what I can tell, of what the songs mean personally to Bono. The decreasingly cool magazine's dedication to ranking things has had me cringing for years. Rock 'n' Roll was never meant to be labeled and ordered and categorized. The issue does, however, make one good point: Bob Dylan is 70 (yesterday), and we should be celebrating that milestone.

I'm exactly half Dylan's age, and I consider it a great stroke of fortune that several decades of my life will have overlapped with his. I've seen him in concert nine times--more than a few of those with McBone's official musicologist, Darin. As long as Bob doesn't tire of re-imagining his songs, I'll never get tired of hearing them.

And that's really the point, isn't it? More than trying to figure out why Masters of War is the 26th greatest Dylan song, or wondering why the hell Man Gave Names to All the Animals is nowhere to be found on the list? Bob never had much use for that kind of crap, and so I'll avoid lazy journalism and instead devote my time to doing what my sometimes-pregnant wife has been doing all week: listening to the songs.

I'm gonna start with Rolling Stone's 63rd favorite, which just happens to be my no. 1.

I love you, Bob. Thanks for everything.

nwb

A Little Something to Beautify Your Day

2011-05-24T17:18:00.000-05:00

Sylvia Sidney

nwb

Kiss My Ass, Baby Carrot

2011-05-22T19:40:00.004-05:00

Trust not the false prophet

You know what baby carrot? You suck! Wanna know what makes me feel that way? How much time you got?

First off, you have no taste at all. None. I'm not sure what the people in charge of carrots did to transform a sweet, crunchy and otherwise delightful root vegetable into a perfectly flavorless, dowel-shaped imposter, but it's about time someone called you on it. You may have some cruch left in you, but your utter lack of gustatory appeal makes chewing an exercise in tedium. You're not good plain, not good in salads, not good cooked...about the only hope you have is to be dipped into some obnoxious goo. Onion dip. Ranch dressing, god help us.

Secondly, how do you manage to maintain such a blindingly bright orange? Any carrot I've ever peeled starts to oxidize around the edges after a while, but YOU, baby carrot, you come peel-free and ready to eat. What foul chemical do they spray once you've been under the knife? You're like the Cher of carrots. If Kenny Rogers was a carrot, he'd be a baby carrot.

Am I done? Not by a long shot. Because you're like a microcosm of everything that's wrong with this country. It doesn't take much effort to peel and eat a carrot. We're talking a minute of work, maximum. Even chopping up a bunch of carrots doesn't tax our time enough to make a tasteless travesty like you worthwhile. But you make it sooo easy to open the bag and munch away. Oh, I'm sure you have some trace quantities of beta keratin, and I'm sure you think you're keeping our kids healthy as you shove that bag of Lays out of the lunch bag. You know what I say to that, baby carrots? I say fuck you, and kiss my ass while you're at it. You're carrot in name only, a carrot stripped of all inherent virtues. You make a mockery of nutrition. You enable legions of young people for whom separating a carrot from its skin has become--like spelling out an entire word--an insufferable chore. Given the choice, I'll take the chips every time.

A real carrot, now that's a wonderful thing--loaded with vitamins and great for the eyes. I love a big, fat hunk of carrot in a homemade stew. I love what some shredded carrot does for a tossed salad. Carrot cake? Scrumptious. Carrot juice? Nutritious and delicious. But you, baby fucking carrot, you make such a convenient substitute that you are ruining carrot-based delicacies throughout the land. Though you pose as some sort of time-saving savior--just microwave some baby carrots for supper--you are in fact a false idol, no better than the worst TV dinner.

So, that's it, baby carrot. I hate you. I hate everything about you. I know that when the Rapture does happen, the gates of heaven to you will be sealed.

nwb

You Call THIS the Rapture?

2011-05-21T19:27:00.002-05:00

Isn't it supposed to be locusts?

So today's supposed to be some sort of special day, huh? Well, if this is what the final judgment is all about, I'll tell you where you can shove it. Let's do a quick recap of events thus far:

7:45 AM - Wake up for half day of work on Saturday.

8:13 - Curdled milk plops into coffee.

9:01 - Arrive at work. Learn I was not mistaken about having to work on Saturday.

9:02 - Denounced as 'sluggard' and 'layabout' by assistant manager for tardiness.

10:13 - Scoop handful of trail mix from bag in office. Discover fingernail among assorted fruits and nuts.

1:00 PM - Leave work just as heavens open. Four Horsemen arrive in the form of 14 inches of rain.

1:30 - 3:50 - Shopping.

3:50 - 4:27 - Caught behind old woman with coupons.

4:43 - Arrive home. Bills waiting in mailbox: 6.

4:45 - Rain abates enough for sometimes-pregnant wife to insist on taking a walk through humid, mosquito-infested woods.

5:07 - Sustain 50th mosquito bite.

5:27 - Last patch of unbitten skin bitten.

5:29 - Contract West Nile virus.

6:14 - Conclude walk. Birds sighted: 0.

6:15 - Beers waiting in fridge: 0.

6:20 - 7:31 - Prepare and eat burrito dinner. Discover Band-Aid among refried beans and salsa.

7:32 - present - Blog about rapturous day.

nwb

Ooooh Yeaaah!

2011-05-21T01:22:00.003-05:00

This week we say goodbye to two of the greats: Harmon Killebrew, who was Mark McGwire before MLB started taking notes from the WWF:

573 home runs, 0 congressional hearings

and WWF legend Randy Macho Man Savage, who, like Mark McGwire, pumped his body full of any number of artificial, performance-enhancing substances:

Oh, Macho Man. Your feud with Ricky the Dragon Steamboat is the stuff of legend. When you smashed the Dragon's throat with the bell, I hated you. When you gloated about it, I hated you more. Luckily, Bruno Sanmartino was there to administer the lesson I so badly wanted to teach you, you piece of slime.

And now that you're gone, I miss you. I miss recreating your bouts with my brother on Saturday mornings. I miss your complicated relationship with Hogan. I miss your dyed beard and leathery, orange skin. Nothing about you was real, but you were in your way so genuine--somehow much more a Killebrew than a McGwire.

Peace, fellas. May the Cosmos speed you to whatever place is reserved for the true Hall of Famers.

nwb

Draft Fantasy

2011-05-18T07:41:00.002-05:00

By winning the rights to the first and fourth picks in the 2011 NBA draft, the Cavaliers had just about the best possible outcome in last night's lottery. Special thanks to the LA Clippers for serving up on a silver platter what turned into the number one selection. Trading the rights to the top pick for Mo Williams and Jamario Moon was foolish and unlucky even by Clippers standards, but we do appreciate the Clip's apparent dedication to a speedy basketball renaissance in Cleveland.

And, with point guard Kyrie Irving on the board, let's go ahead and call the first pick a foregone conclusion. Irving, fresh off a short but dominant 14-minute career at Duke, is precisely the kind of explosive player the Cavs need in an increasingly point guard-dominated league.

The fourth pick? Not so easy to forecast. This draft has been called one of the weakest in recent memory by the people who get paid to know these kinds of things, but more optimistic types know that any draft will produce at least a handful of viable NBA players. Sometimes finding a 'diamond in the rough' requires a little bit of thinking 'outside the box,' so to speak. May we suggest an unlikely candidate?

The Sheffield Lake Girl, the sure-handed, hard-hitting first basewoman who has led the Cleveland Indians to a stunning 26-13 start, has understandably been flying under the draft radar. Having never played a game of college, high school, middle school or rec. league basketball (or, to our knowledge, Nerfoop), most mock drafts project her going mid to late first round at best. Since the end of a regular season that saw the Cavaliers finish with a lowly 19-63 record, our scouts have been staking out the fairgrounds of Northeast Ohio for a peek at the SLG's skill at the Pop-a-Shot. Our report? Not only will those long legs and short shorts mesmerize opposing players, The SLG has a positively filthy crossover dribble to complement what one top scout is calling the best two-handed set shot since Joe Lapchick was running with the Cleveland Rosenblums. Furthermore, the SLG brings the kind of hometown appeal that has been missing ever since You-Know-Who did You-Know-What.

Should the SLG be unavailable at #4, we believe that the 6'10" center Enes Kanter is an intriguing alternative.

nwb

Michael Boltonnaise

2011-05-14T08:14:00.003-05:00

A package was delivered to me at work this past week. It contained a giant tub of 'extra heavy' mayonnaise decked out with pictures of Michael Bolton. Also included was a box of bendy straws. This was clearly a message from our mayonnist ememies, who are coming at us with a full arsenal of all the world's worst stuff.

Let this be my answer: I will not be intimidated and I will not back down. I enjoy a bendy straw as much as the next guy, but I certainly will not drink from your jug--piping hot off the FedEx truck--of disgusting white sludge.

We categorically reject your preferred condiment and musician.

nwb

About the Size of a Lemon

2011-05-08T22:59:00.003-05:00

A couple of months ago, I posted this cryptic and mysterious photo:

About the size of one grain of rice

At least it was meant to be mysterious, but in fact about seven seconds passed before someone figured out its meaning and so I quickly and quietly deleted.

When we were married more than a decade ago, my sometimes-popular wife and I made the decision to put plans to start a family on hold while we pursued our academic goals. I'm not going to lie; ten years of abstinence isn't easy. Those biological urges are pretty persuasive, even with a steady regimen of yoga, prayer and meditation keeping them at bay. When a friend suggested we try a prophylactic, I told him what he could do with his big words and fancy liberal education. Others recommended some form of birth control, which seemed reasonable, but I don't do anything without the Vatican's approval so we shitcanned that idea as well. All I can say is, thank heavens for the chastity belt!

Well, with my learnin' days far behind me and my SPW nearing the end of the coursework required for her doctorate, it seemed that time and our reproductive organs were ripe for the challenge. All that stood between me and fatherhood was that goddam belt and an epic and perilous quest for the key! But since I'd already used my vacation time at work, she waived that part of the deal and we called up Pop-A-Lock instead.

I'll spare you the gruesome details, but something must have clicked because about midway through February her body started going positively haywire. Suddenly, things that once smelled good smelled bad. Nausea could only be cured by eating. When her urine stream splashed down on the little plastic stick and a second red line confirmed our suspicions, we knew our lives would be changing, utterly and forevermore.

We were told this was supposed the be the Year of Shaft & Son. Then we heard about Scenic Byways and Kid Shay's sprawling mansion in the Pacific Northwest. That's all well and good, but in the name of keeping up with my partner bloggers (I don't suppose we'll ever catch up to our prolific Poet Laureate), my sometimes-pregnant wife and I are pleased to introduce Arrocito, now much larger than a grain of rice and currently doing laps in a warm pool of amniotic fluid.

Foxy wife + child

Boy? Girl? Neither? Both? We don't care. Arrocito, I can't believe how much I already love you. I can't wait to meet you, kid, but no hurry. Take it easy. There's a crazy-ass world waiting for you and we're going to have a hell of a time together, but for now kick back with your transparent skin and a head that's 50 times too big for its body and enjoy the womb for another six months or so.

Oh, and don't forget to wish your mom a happy mother's day. She's doing all she can to make sure you slide out of there healthy and happy. I know she can't hear you and your language skills probably suck at this point, but you might give her a little kick when you get a sec.

To mothers everywhere! Thanks for doing all the work and sparing us men the unspeakable weirdness that is pregnancy.

Mom! You birthed and raised me. An especial thanks to you, jlb.

nwb

Truckin'

2011-05-07T22:02:00.002-05:00

You can travel the other 49 states all you want; from the frozen wastes of Alaska to the untamed mountain roads of the American Rockies, you're not going to find any better truckin' than right here in Lafayette, Indiana. I'm not talking about Teamster-style truck driving, mind you, or even the act of driving a truck. Nope, I mean truckin', like the kind of truckin' that would make a Grammy-winning platinum artist proud. Here's a highlight from the east side:

$4.28 a gallon? Pffff!

That's a big-ass truck hauling tires for an even bigger-ass truck. You gotta admit--that's some serious motherfuckin' truckin'.

Not to be outdone, this badboy was spotted on the west side of the Wabash:

When you gotta ride, don't fight it

Cincinnati knows truckin' too, apparently

Nothing like a little Tea Party patriotism while you're truckin' F150 style. With the biggest payload in its class, there should be plenty of room by 2012 to chuck what's left of America in the back and drive it to safety.

Keep on truckin', Lafayette.

nwb

To Do List

2011-05-04T23:09:00.004-05:00

Chum

Ok, he's dead, shot and dumped like a bucket of chum into the sea. Now that the chest beating and chants of U-S-A! are out of the way, let's take a calm look back for a minute. That ten-year manhunt sure took a toll, didn't it? You wonder just how long we, and the world, can go on like this. Doesn't it seem that, countless lives and a trillion dollars later, it might be time to reevaluate things going forward?

After a intense 48-hour session fueled by coffee, cigarettes and a mountain of cocaine, here's the twelve-point agenda drummed up by the think tank division of McBone, Inc:

-End wars

-Bring troops home

-Dismantle empire

-Cut military budget in half

-Repair infrastructure

-End Bush tax cuts

-Raise capital gains taxes

-Rebuild cities

-Shrink income gap

-Grow green energy sector

-Educate kids

-Care for sick and elderly

We know a lot of people won't go for any plan that attempts to remove violence from the equation, and we are very much aware how cool folks are with 1% of the population commanding a quarter of the wealth, but we're going ahead with the scheme we believe will transform us from big, fat, bullying deathmongers into a healthy, industrious, compassionate and, yes, civilized state.

Playtime is over, America. Time to grow up.

nwb

On a Personal Note

2011-05-01T23:07:00.001-05:00

My sometimes-popular wife and I were in the subway under the World Financial Center when the first plane hit. We were standing under the smoking, burning tower when the second plane impacted. We were lucky to have made it uptown to safety before the whole goddam thing could come crashing down on our heads.

I've spent a lot of time in subsequent years thinking about the people I saw jumping in desperation. And about those buried in the rubble. And those vaporized upon impact. Those thoughts will haunt me forever.

So, he's dead. Will this bring closure? No, I don't do neat and tidy like that, especially not with a cousin in Afghanistan. Will this end our troubles in the Middle East? Heavens no. Will this change anything beyond the headlines in coming weeks? We'll have to see about that.

I've always considered myself a person of peace, even more so after witnessing 9/11. I continue to be confused by violence and war waging and all the things humans do to each other in the name of whatever. More than anything, I want the fighting to stop.

But I do have to say: I am glad you're gone, motherfucker.

nwb

The McBone Birdwatching Journal; Birds Sighted

2011-05-01T22:13:00.002-05:00

Yes I realize that this is in danger of devolving (perhaps evolving?) into a bird journal, but what can I say? Today made for some exquisite birding:

Blue jay - woke me up

Cardinal

Hummingbird

House finch

Chickadee - nesting in the wren house

Catbird - slamming the peanut butter suet

Red-bellied woodpecker

Downy woodpecker

Hairy woodpecker

Pileated woodpecker - heard not seen

Rose-breasted grosbeak

Crow - taking his own turn at the suet

Brown-headed cowbird - engaged in a violent menage a trois

Chipping sparrow

House sparrow

Robin

White-breasted nuthatch

Hermit thrush

Mourning dove

Some kind of warbler - hey, let's see YOU identify a warbler, wiseass

nwb

The McBone Birdwatching Journal; Blue Jay

2011-04-30T20:49:00.001-05:00

The blue jay is among the most cantankerous species in all the bird kingdom, screeching and cawing (read: bitching and moaning) in the most vulgar of ways from high in the treetops. They are also, in my opinion, one of the most spectacular to look at:

Beautiful, loud, temperamental, obnoxious and rude...I guess that makes them kind of like the Stanley Kowalski of birds.

From my observations, blue jays tend to be the wandering type, stopping by for a quick bite, stirring things up, showing off their bespeckled blue feathers and dropping some flip remark before taking their act to another corner of the hood. Today we had the good fortune to have a particularly raucous flock of four drop by for most of the afternoon.

The wind was blowing and the jays were squawking, but the only unpleasantness I could hear was the roar of the internal combustion engine. Check out this signature, McBone-produced, ultra low-quality vid:

The atonal serenade alone would have contented us, but the blue jay's was not the only fancy display of plumage to be observed today. Behold the rare and mysterious neighbor bird, with ostentatious fuchsia crown, foraging in the dirt for beetles, worms, grubs and maggots:

Should you encounter the fussy neighbor bird trespassing on your lawn, you'll find it is easily frightened by a well aimed garden hose.

nwb

¡Que Ridículo!

2011-04-27T20:57:00.001-05:00

What's Julianne Moore got to laugh about?

She just looked at the AL Central standings!

Dedicated to you, SKS, and you know why. Stay the hell away from our first basewoman.

nwb

Monsters vs Moose!

2011-04-26T19:06:00.010-05:00

Tonight we root on the Lake Erie Monsters, official employer of Stabbone and likely the only team in Cleveland to taste the postseason this year. The Monsters finished the regular season with an impressive 44-28 record, good enough to qualify for a chance to win the Calder Cup for the first time in the team's young history.

Following a string of three straight sixth-place finishes, the Monsters exploded this year to establish themselves as a power in the AHL's Western Conference. Their final record represents a ten-game improvement from 2009-2010 and suddenly Monsters hockey is the best act in town.

Now deadlocked 3-3 in an epic series with the Manitoba Moose, the Monsters have a 1-0 lead at the end of the first period. The Moose ain't going quietly, though. They've climbed out of a 3-1 hole to even up the series.

Should the Monsters advance the second round, the 44-27 Hamilton Bulldogs are waiting.

Let's go Monsters! Down with Canada!*

Update--The Monsters allow four unanswered goals to lose the game and series in typical Cleveland flameout fashion. But just wait till next year!

nwb

*Except their superior health care system, from which we could learn a lot