2012 Olympics - Judge for yourself

Type in the words “Judged events at the Olympics” into Google and some 5.8 million links come up. OK, so I did not use “quotes”, but its amazing the sensitivity around this topic. Personally, I don’t profess to being an Olympic guru. I, like most, watch them every four years (or every 2 years if you watch both Summer and Winter Olympics). Like most, I scream at the screen “Hey, her legs were nowhere near as straight on that entry,” pretending like I know what I am talking about. Everyone knows everything in the comforts of your home watching on TV, but its still fun to do. Which leads me to this topic. The subjectivity in judging at the Olympics is beyond brutal. Yes, I said it. BRUTAL. Here are a few examples:

1 – This Chinese swimmer in the gold medal of the 1500m freestyle dives into the pool ahead of the whistle. The judges are shocked. Why would he do that? Even the TV commentators are saying its pointless to jump the gun on such a long race, since this one goes for a while, so being in the pool a millisecond faster is useless. There is a rule that ANY false start, and the lucky person is disqualified – that is of course unless it’s the guy who everyone expects to win the Gold. So the swimmer simply gets jumps out of the pool, resets himself, claims his dog ate his homework, and boom, we start again. So what happened to this automatic disqualification? I guess it only applies to the guy from Antarctica standing on the start with water wings, since we know he won’t win. Gotta love the selective application of their own rules.

2 – In the gymnastics Vault final, where there are 2 vaults total for the medals, and the American favourite is up. She’s a sure thing for Gold, even the NBC coverage (8 hours delayed from the rest of the world) says everyone is vaulting for silver. So her first vault is fine, lots of twists and flips, delightfully executed as the TV guys say. “She should be happy with that one,” as if the athlete needs someone to tell her that. Now on her second vault, she literally lands on her butt. No perfect landing, pretty much how 99% of the population would land after trying to do the flips and flops these athletes do. Recognizing her error, she immediately stands up, throws her arms up as if to say she planned that, and walks off, trying hard as possible not to start crying. She won silver. Now I am no gymnastics guru, nor do I understand the judging, but this seems a bit odd to me. If it was the best of two, OK, buts it’s the total score of the two. The girl who won Gold did not land on her butt, so I can justify that medal, but the poor girl who won bronze is probably thinking WTF!?!?!? I landed on my feet. Sure, my flipping and flopping was not as “difficult” as hers, but at least I pulled it off. I could go on regarding more Olympic examples of questionable judging, but at the same time I was proud of the diving judges who gave some guy a zero for entering the pool on his back. “He won’t be happy with that one,” said the TV guy.

And we're back....

OK, after much procrastination and urging from people who needed something to read while visiting the bathroom, I have decided to blog again. Its been a tortuous decision, since to put it straight out, nobody is reading this except me, and those few people I told. Hi people!

That said, I have decided that even though I am truly only writing to myself and my friends, maybe, just maybe, some complete stranger will chime in with a comment saying "I read your blog... and it sucked," or something similar. I'd rather deal with haters versus ignorance.

I read the Ken Levine blog, considered one of the top 25 blogs per Time magazine. His blog has the theme of how to get into television and the behind-the-scenes stuff for potential writers. Yet my blog is about...well...me venting. While very interesting to me, perhaps not super exciting for you the reader. So I will try to mix it up every now and then.

What harm can there be? You're already doing your business in the bathroom as you're reading this right now. That's the effect I have on people.

What the....

Well thus endeth another season of Celebrity Apprentice, with some country singer I have never heard of until this show came on winning over Marlee Matlin. Kudos to John Rich for proving that country musicians are just as smart as anyone else (a fact I never questioned - see Trace Atkins from previous Celebrity Apprentice shows), but that many male country singers REFUSE to remove their stetson's. Must be the killer hat head or something. I mean come on now - do you sleep with it on too?

This is not the blog to recap the show - there are many others for that. Instead, a couple of random observations from the show.

- First off, what is the deal with Lisa Rinna's boobs? Literally every shot of the jury showed her fun bags in the background. You could not concentrate on anything anyone even said when all you saw was boob in the background. Heck, even my favourite fake boob person on this show Ivanka was jealous. Meat Loaf was crying over them. I was waiting for Trump to ask her boobs who he should fire.

- Where was Dionne Warwick? Now I am a child of the 60's and I love Three Dog Night. My mom played that "Joy to the World" LP (kids, these are those big round discs you had to play on a record player before tapes and CDs came into existence) endlessly. To see Dionne pull the me only stunt during the show put new meaning into her hit "One is the loneliest number" song. Then to not show up for the reunion. Unacceptable. Maybe she was helping care for Jose Canseco's mom.

Speaking of boobs again, anyone watch Survivor this past season? Maybe it was just me, but this season, I seemed to notice the camera angles of many scenes aimed at, how shall I say, naughty parts. Yes, we all saw Philips pink gonch. Erase that memory from my mind. But we also saw many upshots of the female hoo-haw from different angles. Butt shots, crotch shots, you name it. Yes there was always underwear to cover what would become an R-rated shot, but my gosh, I thought I was watching Girls Gone Wild - Survivor style.

Was I the only one who noticed this?

Wow, has it been that long?

OK, so I decided to take a nap back in November, then magically fell into this dream where I was an innkeeper for a cottage in Vermont, and there were these three brothers, two if which shared the same name...Darrel...

Enough of that. Anyone who did not recognize the above did not watch TV in the 80s, or was it 90s I dunno.

Well I am back, energized, ready, blog ready. I even watched a wealth of Celebrity Apprentice and Undercover Boss episodes, but we won't talk about that right now. Although Ivanka's boobs continue to mesmerize me.

I have one basic, somewhat rhetorical question. Who the heck brings their newborn kid to a playoff game, then complains that its too noisy? Maybe its just me, but perhaps the raucous crowd environment and crazed drunken behaviour is perhaps not the best setting for ensuring "bebe" can get some night-night time.

Chances are, these are the same people who decide to stand in the middle of the concourse to talk, despite the fact they have clogged access to thousands of drunken idiots wanting to take a leak - me excluded of course. I'm just saying.

Undercover Boss no more!

OK, I have officially had enough.

In earlier blogs, I wrote about the television show Undercover Boss, which at the time was a novel idea of disguising the President or CEO of a company and placing them into the lowest ranks of the organization, to see if he/she could actually do the front-line tasks they were expecting the peons to excel at.

Sort of a take on Michael Moore's idea of trying to get the CEO of IBM to come out in front of the office and format a disk (for you young-ins a disk is a thing you put computer data on, like a DVD today). Of course, since many of the executives they showed were unable to do the tasks in a timely fashion, if at all, watch the hijinks ensue. Some of these tasks included cleaning toilets, moving pallets of inventory, greeting customers etc. Great television, right?

Well the formula of the show is now a broken record:
- Show CEO in home environment - see them as great family people whilst relaxing in a lavish multi-zillion dollar estate. Put wife in apron while working 3 inch stilettos and no concept of where oven is. Replace family dog with TV poodle.
- Put funny moustache or hat on CEO and send to seedy hotel in the sticks. Show Tiger Woods sneaking around in the background. Oops, did I write that.
- Show CEO being assigned to extremely keen and uber-positive trainer, then failing at the most mundane tasks. Show trainer waving finger in shame.
- Show CEO going on extended 3 hour coffee or lunch break where CEO becomes corporate psychologists and asks trainer personal questions about their life. Listen to sob story. Change channels for 10 minutes
- Repeat last 2 steps at least 3 times. Insert clip of CEO back at seedy motel washing face with grungy facecloth which would normally not be used to clean gum off shoe. Show CEO running off camera to makeup room.
- Show trainers back at head office with CEO, acting completely stunned as CEO unveils ruse and offers lavish gifts.
- Show corporate event where fake office staff laugh at the hijinks which ensued in the ruse on big screen.
- Show extreme affection between CEO and trainers. Ensure contracts are signed beforehand to limit unlawful touching of subordinates.
- Ignore fact that lying and tricking employees during this television ruse is a complete violation of corporate values, and under normal circumstances, would result in termination.
- Show updates on screen of happiness and bliss which followed. No mention of share price fluctuations.
- Throw up.

Now I liked this show in the beginning, and I know these hardship cases are likely valid. I'm all for supporting the hardworking little people out to support their families. But the show formula never changed except for one episode with Hooters, where some line manager was an absolute chauvinist, and another with a distribution company where a customer service rep was rude (she is clearly the only one in North America).

Otherwise, every company was the same. Lots of hardship case employees who work hard and hope for a better life, but rarely say anything bad about their employers. Put up your hand if you cannot find someone in your company who might have something less than positive to say about management. It is like an infomercial for the company, but without Tom Vu or Billy Blanks and a bevy of skanks in the background.

I know its Sunday television, and I know its supposed to be feel good, but do you really think every company is this way? Or that none of the employees ever watch this show on television and catch onto the ruse as its happening. I am almost motivated to support Hooters, since they at least had the stones to allow their company to be slightly embarrassed. Since I hate their food, probably not, but kudos to you Hooters, for at least being real. Well at least some things are real at Hooters.

This is what happens when my friends go watch tennis....

Knock and Beware

I work for a big company, and as such, because of job and stature, have been provided an office. I like to think my hard work and great contributions resulted in the office being provided, although chances are everyone above data-entry person gets one here since we have a big building. Regardless I am the Donald Trump of my area, or so I tell people.

Every once in a while, I need to close the door to my office. Whether its to eat lunch, work on confidential projects, talk to someone on the phone, whatever the case. Everyone has their reasons.

What is perplexing to me is how often someone actually comes and knocks on the door even if it is closed. So lets think about this for a second. Door is open, people can come in and I can go out. Since my door is more often open than closed, its should be obvious that when its closed, privacy is required. Door is closed means do not disturb. If I wanted to be disturbed, I would not close the door.

I know, petty blog, but it baffles me how often this happens. And every time someone knocks on the door (which is almost daily), the first comment out of their mouth is "Sorry to bother you". No you're not. if you were sorry, you would not have knocked. Was I away the day they taught people that respecting people's privacy means respecting when a door is closed? Now if the building was on fire, or someone was injured, sure, knock on the door. Today, it was "can I borrow your stapler?" I guess everyone with open office doors do not have functioning staplers.

I think its time to be quiet now.

"9 TIMES, BABY"

I know people. Rusty is a bad blogger. Sadly, I am not very consistent in my posts, but when I post, I like to put some time into it. We've all seen blogs where it looks forced. Not me baby! I slave over my blog like I'm baking a cake, icing it perfectly, popping in the candles. OK, bad example for a dude, but you know what I mean.

So I went to the drive-in for the first time in years. The last drive-in I went to magically burned down due to a gas explosion in the plant next door, and that was at least 10 or more years ago. I seem to recall watching something with Catherine Zeta-Jones (who my Dad continues to describe as phhhheeeeennnnnommminaaaal) and Sean Connery (is he still alive?). It was a while ago for sure.

Its always fun to check out the retro snack bar, sit out in the fresh air, crimp your neck at strange angles and watch a few flicks. It was a triple-feature night, so theoretically, I could have stayed there for a week watching movies and eating stale unbuttered popcorn. Driving into the lot, I was pleasantly surprised to see the ground was not gravel, but rather actual grass and some semi-paved lanes. It was a hot night and a weekend to boot, so I knew it would be busy. Best to get there a bit early and find a nice spot where nobody else was parked - since I'm quiet and all you know.

Unbeknownst to me, this drive-in has an area for cars, and a bigger area for trucks, vans, planes etc. Dummy me heads to the back (since I'm a back of the bus kind of guy), resulting in being in the Winnebago and Partridge Family bus circa-1976 zone. And you know some yahoo with a monster sized truck was going to park in front of me. By the time I realized my error, all the small vehicle spots were full, so we sucked it up and tried to watch between the monster trucks.

I decided to line-up for food in a line-up the size of an American Idol audition. It was moving quick, but I did not anticipate the intriguing banter of the people around us. There were 3 teen-aged ladies in front of us. I put them at maybe 17. Somehow, their skuzzy 17 year old boyfriends got them to stand in line while they stayed back in the van to do homework or pray or something. So the ladies are chatting about the fun they had the night before, and the topic of intimacy comes up. I am by no means one of those sickos who eavesdrops, but it was hard not to hear as the larger of the girls (see fuller-figured) is tutoring the smaller girls on techniques, while resting her arms on the little girls shoulders. No joke!

I'm really trying hard at this point to not pay any more attention. I'm watching the stray dog taking a leak by the garbage can, the older couple with funny binoculars, anything to not hear this conversation. Then the larger girl bursts out with "9 TIMES BABY!," and I'm pretty sure she is not talking about arithmetic. "YOU'LL GET THERE TOO ONE DAY GIRLS!" she tells the little ones, all motherly. The littlest one, who resembled Winnie Cooper from the Winder years (left), ran back to the van, saying something about needing more money. For all I know, she was trying to catch-up. Who knew.

Working my way back through the parking lot maze, and I thought about was how I was clearly too introverted as a teenager to come across girls like the ones in line. Even the second-hand pot smoke and annoying moths could not change my thought process. Both movies sucked, and I will likely not rush back to the drive-in, but at least now I know how much it has changed.

Unusual Neighbours Continued...

Most recently, since I've moved into my not so new townhouse, I've had a couple of neighbours on one side and the same neighbour on the other. The couple who have been here with us the whole time seem quite nice. They have barricaded their backyards with tall trees, shrubbery and lattice fencing to ensure nobody, us included, can see in. I find this perfectly normal. They have a cute little terrier dog, who actually only barks when she is outside, so its nice for the most part. Either that, or he has insulated his walls on the inside to mask "Sparkie's" barking. The dog wants to be a rooster, so we can always tell when its time to wake up too which is an added bonus. We hardly talk, so being the quiet guy that I am, works great for me.

On the other side to me was a friendly elderly couple. We share "doors", meaning they can see our back door and vice-versa. Any time I'd come home, the husband would be outside watering his lawn or flora which adorned his townhouse. He was religious about watering, minimum 4 to 5 times per day, for multiple hours at a time. He would personally see to it that every plant on his yard, and all 6 neighbours, had plenty of watering done. If there was a chain-smoking for waterers, this guy was the winner. He was a German fellow, and his English was not great, but we could always tell his intentions, as he walked around everywhere with his water jug looking to feed some plant. We would snarl at me any time we did NOT water our lawn at the same time as him. When we looked across the backyards of all the tenants, you could always tell which yard was his - his grass was green, plush, consistent. The rest looked like typical yards with patches of green and brown, odd shaped divots etc. I called him the "Water Nazi", in a polite way of course.

The Water Nazi moved away (likely to some pasture somewhere which he could turn into Central Park), but his place was sold very quickly. I would learn that the new couple were also retirees, and the husband used to work for NATO. He would tell me crazy stories of espionage, hanging upside-down to retrieve prized gems, avoiding hidden laser beams....oh, that was Mission Impossible. Well that was what I was thinking, as he was telling he of his ventures to countries I've never heard of. But it was not his past career that makes him different. Nope, instead its that I think he's a peeping tom. He loves looking into our windows. Its kind of creepy. He's also one of those "always seems to be there" kind of people, meaning, the minute I go into the back yard, whammo, he comes out to chat. Now I can only talk for so long, especially if I'm BBQing or something, but he magically always pops up. I'd be driving into the garage, and there he is, waving. I go to pick up the newspaper, and he's there to hand it to me - ok not literally, but he's always out there. If I had higher fences, I would call him Wilson.

I have no idea why I get so many unique neighbours. Chances are as you are reading this, you might think that is perfectly normal. To me, living next to porn freaks, slutty sportscasters, wife beaters, water nazis, Fort Knox and Lookie-Lous is just another day too. I wonder what they all refer to me as?

Where are the Ropers when you need them?

I have an a great knack for neighbours. It goes back in time, but I swear if there was a prize for living next to unusual people, I would not only win, they would name the prize after me.

I used to live in an apartment on the basement floor. The day I checked the place out, nary a peep in the building, and the price was right. Of course, it was 10am, and most people were at work. Little did I realize both the walls and ceilings were paper thin, and you could hear everything.

Across the hall was another young guy, just like me at the time. Seemed to keep to himself - I always saw him coming back home on his bike with bags of groceries in hand. OK, so the guy liked to eat, worse things to have right? Well I guess my friend also fancied himself a ladies man, thinking he could bring the birds to the nest for a little alone time. Little did I know, alone time included watching adult movies every weekend - LOUD. Ever live beside someone who loved watching these flicks all night - changes you perception on quiet guys quite quickly. Thankfully, the landlord evicted little Larry Flynt, but the noises remain burned in my ear.

One floor up was one of the city's most famous female sportscasters. She of the pretty face, and great knowledge of all sports - she could talk the talk as well. I watched her on TV all the time, and thought she was a hottie. One day in the laundry room, someone had left their lady garments in the dryer. Normally, I would remove them and place them in the laundry basket on top, but these lady garments were truly the "undergarments" guys like me should not see (or I guess be privileged to see). Sure enough, not seconds after I shut the dryer door, along comes our sportscaster, top speed, to collect her stuff. We exchanged pleasantries, and I thought to myself, our hot sportscaster lives just upstairs and likes to wear frilly undergarments - score! I would watch the newscast with much greater attention over the next few weeks.

One night, I hear noises from outside my window. Its dark, but I can see its our sportscaster coming in the back entry after another late night. Now I can smell drunk better than most, and she was sauced. She was trying to climb over the 3 foot fence - normally a weak challenge for most - but she was stuck on the fence, hanging from her pants. Some football sized dude was trying to heave her over the fence, but she was caught. As her pants ripped, she fell head first on my side, laughing the whole time. Biff came over afterwards, even more trashed than her. They would scamper through the door and upstairs, where now I hear the frolic that was not the kind of sports you broadcast. So my dreamy sportscaster was Slutty Susan, bring home stray athletes to prepare for next days airing, or whatever they were doing.

She would move out eventually (must not have liked having to be hoisted over the fence so much), and was replaced by "Chester and Edna", the horny seniors. Lets just say their bed springs were likely as old as they were, but got good use nonetheless. Beside me was the landlady, who was more of a Harley-biker chick, who seemed to like finding the skuzziest guy out there to bring home. One night, I overheard a screaming match in the hallway. One of the sentences I overheard, which I am typing verbatim - "you can keep beating me up, but please don't f**king leave me." Ummm. OK. How do you deal with that?

To be continued....

I just want to dance...

<br/><a href="http://video.msn.com/video.aspx?mkt=en-CA&amp;vid=4651584c-add8-417d-a89c-d9a63ae25f4e" target="_new" title="Ridiculous Cheerleader Gives 110%">Video: Ridiculous Cheerleader Gives 110%</a>

Do I know you?

Everyone has seen someone and thought to themselves – I know that person. But where?

I’ve moved around a lot, and as such, I have that weird feeling all the time when I see someone who seems familiar. My Roladex of faces and names starts spinning. Usually, I identify them, but periodically, I go away scratching my head.

The other day, I saw a guy I remembered. Back as a teenager, I used to work at the amusement park. Everything you have heard about amusement parks is not true. We were normal kids with normal lives, not children of gypsies looking to cheat you out of your last buck so we could buy some dope. We’d buy dope and munchies too. Kidding. Still, to this day, I have crazy dreams, which somehow result in me popping up from a slumber screaming "Do you want to go faster?" No joke.

Working at an amusement park, you had a variety of characters. We had these maintenance guys, young guys who were responsible for fixing rides when they were broken. Now we are talking about the late 70's and early 80's when worker safety was not as prevalent. These dudes would swagger around the park in untied steel-toed boots and navy blue coveralls, climbing up and down various rides without any kind of safety gear or helmets. God forbid you mess up the killer mullet forcing the ladies to look elsewhere for the next Leif Garrett.

They would always be working with a cigarette hanging out of their mouth, or over their ear until they could put it in their mouth later (Ewww) and a backup pack rolled up their sleeve or in the breast pocket of their coveralls. They were always covered in grease and smelled like stale mini-donuts. Many of them spoke English poorly if at all, yet had names like Dave or Steve, which made no sense to me.

They were actually the nicest guys, but chances are, you would think the worst of them based on appearance alone. I’m pretty sure they ate other people’s leftovers in the park to minimize costs. Little kids thought they were park mascots.

So anyways, I’m near the park and I see the same maintenance guy I worked with some 30 years ago. He still had the mullet. He was still smoking. He still had that same cool-guy walkie-talkie dangling over his shoulder. Now after some cordial ice-breaker conversation, I simply ask him what he is up to these days.

Him: “Oh, I still work in the park – going on 34 years”
Me: “No way. You’ve got to be a Manager by now?”
Him: “Nope – still fixing rides. How about you?”
Me: “’I’m in Finance now.”
Him: “Cool – can you get me a job?”

He was not joking. Now you know why I moved around a lot.

NHL, Here I come?

Tomorrow is always a unique day for many in Canada. Its NHL Draft day. As in National Hockey League for you non-hockey types, which means all of you.

Like most boys growing up in Canada, we all wanted to play professional hockey. I was no different. My brother and I would practice in our basement, putting on old stinky equipment my Dad had lying around the basement, and shoot a million shots at each other like the pros. We both fancied ourselves as quite good street hockey players, able to fire the ball (in lieu of a puck which was way to hard to play with in the basement) all over the play, much to the chagrin of our parents who worried windows would be broken and walls dented. While the existence of a piano caused some logistical challenges, some of our best saves resulted in a few wall dents, but nothing the repositioning of the couch could not hide. Plus, our mock hockey fights were epic, though less so for my brother who never won.

I never played organized hockey as a kid growing up. Hard to believe, given the passion most Canadians have towards the game. We were too busy doing other Canadian stuff like pronouncing words funny (its r-oof, not r-uuuff), heating the igloo and frying our back bacon with maple syrup - very tasty on a cold night by the way. My Dad figured waking up at 4am to trudge our sorry butts to hockey practice and fork out $500 per kid was a bit too much. Instead we played soccer. Less likely to get injured playing soccer, unless you are my brother, who broke a collarbone, wrecked an ankle and other sorted issues. I apologized every time ;)

As an adult, I get the high cost of sports and the parental commitment, but as a kid, you kind of learn to adjust. I would tell my friends I was more focused on other sports or girls, which was a blatant lie, since I really wanted to skate and show my awesome hockey skills. The hockey culture is so strong that in elementary school, all kids were sent to skating lessons. Not sure if every school did this, but for us, it was like Christmas, since all the kids would practice flailing around and falling at top speed. Most snow attached to your body after you wipeout wins. Then get free hot chocolate at the end. Bonus! Somehow, my brother got a better grade than me. Something about him stopping without the use of body checking another kid. Now why would you want to do that?

So fast forward 30+ years, and while I've since played a wealth of recreational hockey (aka Beer League hockey), the chance to skate with the pros still eludes me. I watch the draft wondering what it would have been like to have heard my name called. With my luck, they would have mispronounced it, but hey, we're Canadian, everything sounds funny here.

I "might" have a Lower Body Injury

Well sadly, here we are one week after my big announcement, and I have done squat all regarding preparing for my big run. I know, big surprise, but I have a good excuse which does not involve candy, television or Ivanka's rack.

I hate doctors. Hate them with a passion. Not personally of course, but no way am I letting that person anywhere near my body, especially if they are waving a needle in my face. I realize thats highly unlikely to happen, but I am also afraid a big wind will come and blow me away one day, like on the Wizard of Oz. Can you tell I was tormented with fears as a kid? Must have been all those soccer balls I took to the head when I was younger. Now what was I talking about?

So it took every ounce of courage I had to go see the doctor regarding my faulty ankle. I hate the place, I hate how it smells, I hate the people you find there, I hate the crappy magazines that are a minimum 2 years old they leave for you to read. By the way, are any of you like me and sit in the waiting room, wondering what problems everyone else around you might have. There are the obvious ones, where blood is gushing, or people are holding their body parts in unusual angles. But then there are those tougher people, who might be sick or have more difficult issues to diagnose. Then you start to think, I'm more in need of medical attention than that guy. Look, they clearly have no pain threshold, like me, who can eat glass, sleep on nails, watch Millionaire Matchmaker. I call it the waiting room Olympics, who will win the contest for worst one off. I'd just be happy to medal.

Now I was not expecting amputation or anything, but that queasy feeling as the doc was groping my ankle in a variety of ways certainly rose. The old "does this hurt?" question 10 times, as he poked away at my leg. I always wonder what might happen if I accidently boot the guy right in the jewels, seeing as my foot was facing his groin area and he's testing my pain threshold. Now I'm not that cruel, but at the same time, I trust he's not wearing a cup, and if I did have the twitch action, I cannot be held accountable for the thrust my foot might take.

So the prognosis - I might have a fractured ankle. Might? When I hear that word in a sentence, I automatically think back to those Publishers Clearing House envelopes addressed to Master Rusty or "To Whom it May Concern," telling me I might have already won! We all know how those contests turn out. So for the last 5 weeks, as I've been hobbling around like a man twice my age, I "might" be walking on a fractured ankle. I'll need X-rays to confirm.

Using a sports vernacular, I have a lower body injury and the use of duct tape will not fix it. Nor will Windex, as some people seem to think is the magical cure for everything. Speaking of which, we used Windex to clean up a horrible colour stain on a countertop. It worked like magic, even though the stuff is blue, and does not leave a blue stain. I've started spraying Windex on my head in hopes my receding hairline will grow. I'll let you know the results, but I'm optimistic.

I had great intentions of pushing my running limit this week. Too bad my ankle is bad. I guess I'll have to watch some TV instead and I "might" eat some candy.

Baby you were "Bored to Run"

You know when your really bored? I mean really really bored. So bored, Jersey Shore seems like a good show to watch. So bored you decide to clean your toilet. So bored you're willing to figure out how many words you can make using the 5 letters in the word bored (I got 28). So bored, you will read this blog.... you get the gist.

When I get bored, I tend to gravitate to a couple of things - surfing the net and doing puzzles. Web browsing is always easy, but it comes with a price. Somehow, I wind up getting tons of spam every day. You can tolerate getting only so many spam emails about "special" vitamins, sex websites, over-the counter drugs, or growing your penis by 3 inches before that gets stale. Besides, in my case, I would have 10 inches total, so why bother? Speaking of bored, people who measure their junk - now there is constructive use of their time.

I also love all kinds of puzzles - jigsaw, sudoku, kenken, crosswords. You name it, if I can solve it using a pencil and a shriveled up eraser, I'm usually in. I have even progressing to taking on the monster New York Times puzzles, which tend to use words I have never even heard of, let alone could fill into the grid. What is a 14 letter word for "Didactic book". What the heck does didactic mean? Sounds like something you might catch. Needless to say, I can only do so many puzzles.

So I need a new challenge. Something I know is outside my comfort zone. I've been wracking my brain trying to figure out what that should be. I'm pretty sure I have landed on a couple of ideas.

For starters, I hate running. With a passion! But for the past couple of years, I've been trying to run varying distances, only to run out of good weather, or to get tired, go home, eat a pile of candy and kill any momentum I have gained. I have a logbook which I have been updating telling me how often I ran and my distances and times, but the last month is sadly quite empty. I blame it on the fact I had to jump into a burning building to save multiple families and pets from sure disaster, fireman carrying each out of the flaming window to safety, severely injuring my ankles as I tripped through burning floorboards. OK, I actually got kicked playing soccer, but the burning house stuff sounds way better. Regardless, my ankle is starting to heal, so I will be back out there running very soon.

My ultimate goal is to run a marathon. I watched the Hawaii triathlon on TV as a kid, as these people ran through desert-like temperatures, and people were crossing the finish line sometimes entire days after the event had started. That will be me one day. But for progression, perhaps I will tackle a 5K run first. I know I can do it. I need my asthma puffer, my oxygen tank, my personal trainer with the handy Gatorade water bottle filling my dry palate, and my cool running shoes with the speedy stripe on the side. I'm there!

I'll save my other boredom challenge for later. In the meantime, I'll see you out there running. I'll be the one you pass. If you're a hot chick, I promise not to look at your butt.

By the way, a 14-letter word for didactic book is ecclesiasticus. I knew you knew that one.

Maybe Trump should hire the Smoke Monster to help him fire people!

Its been 3 full days since the finale of Lost was shown. It has also been 3 full days since the finale of Celebrity Apprentice 2. I watched both, and while I would love to have those 7 and a half hours of my life back, I can conclude some observations from the comfort of my cozy couch.

For starters, Lost was a complex story of love, life, interaction, spirit, adventure....ahh who am I kidding, I have no idea what that show was about. I thought Lost was about a bunch of people stranded on a desert island. How they made 6 seasons out of that premise is beyond me, since it mirrored a little show I watched growing up called Gilligan's Island. Now on that show, the Professor could only make so many things with coconuts before you knew the show had “Jumped the Shark.” But I digress.

Speaking for the regular guy, of which I include myself in that category (despite 2 advanced degrees, a National Publication and well over 100 friends on Facebook), I would say the exact same thing after each show - What the f**k?!?!?! I had no clue what I was watching. I would even surf the net to see what others interpreted from each episode, only to realize I was better off researching how come that show Community is still on television, since neither made sense. People had crazy allegories of religion and scripture whereas I saw a fat guy on a desert island never losing weight and lots of people who probably reeked like ass from not having soap. It was a hopeless cause, but for some reason I kept watching.

Now Celebrity Apprentice on the other hand, I got that premise. I understood how that show worked, and the key takeaway messages the viewer should have gotten - Trump is God, and fake boobies imply respect.

Episode after episode, the players would go through crazy challenges with business implications. In real business, you fire those people who are both expendable and the cause of failures. In Trump's world, you fire whomever you gosh darn feel like, since its your show and you run it how you please. Who cares if you are a micromanager or a poor communicator - you're hot and you can score lots of dough for charity, so we shall keep you.

So on Sunday you had the end of what will likely be one of the more baffling shows ever made at the same time as the end of the show with some of the most baffling decisions ever made. I still don't understand what Lost was trying to tell, me, but if you mixed the two shows together, watching the fired employees get nabbed by the smoke monster - now that’s good television. Or how about sending Don Jr. to the Island to sneak up on the castaways, observe and provide valuable feedback like "Looks like they may be on the track." Hand me the Emmy now.

By the way, anyone else think you could have saved the 2 hours from the Grey's Anatomy finale if you had proper security to ensure people could not randomly walk around a hospital of their own free will like every other hospital in the world (you know those lovely sliding doors you cannot pass through)? Me too.

The doctors had Shepherd on the operating table, wearing their bacteria free masks and gloves, only to have crazy gun guy come strolling into the operating room, waving his gun and shooting another guy. According to CSI, the DNA will be flying all over the place, and would clearly jeopardize the cleanliness of the facility. But that’s OK, we can still fix Derek and sew him up. He'll be fine. By the way, the next time I see a guy pointing a gun at another guy, I'll be sure to run at the guy having the gun pointed at him to see how that works out for me.

I gotta quit watching so much TV.

Bucket List Revealed

I, like many people, have a number of items on my bucket list. While I guarantee it may take some time, I have full confidence I will cross all these items off my list at some point in time:

- Jam with my all-time favourite band Loverboy in a fan frenzied stadium filled concert. I can be the next Mike Reno, right down to the tight red leather outfits and sweatbands, hopping around like someone just lit my pubic hair on fire.

- Get drafted into the NHL. Despite being overlooked the past 25 years, and not being on skates in 3 years, I trust there is a scout out there who will recognize my Gretzky-like stickhandling talent and invite me to their team. And when they do, I will score a goal then ride my stick down the ice like Tiger Williams.

- Touch a fake boob. Ivanka, call me!

- Visit Switzerland, climb the Alps and sing "The Hills are Alive" while dancing in my lederhosen. Bonus points if I can ski down afterwards, like James Bond, with crazed spies chasing me while firing rifles, poison laced arrows and other cool spy stuff

- Develop the first vehicle that can fly, so I can easily avoid all those idiot drivers who get in accidents in the worst possible places. Hey, if it works for the Jetsons….

- Write a sitcom or drama a la Chuck Lorre, which I can sell to a major network, thereby allowing me to write my blog at the end of each show and get paid for it. I'm convinced the musical/police crime drama will work, or maybe a talking alien sitcom. So long as I can cast Ted McGinley or Jim J Bullock, it will be a hit.

- Drive a cab - honestly! I can smell bad and drive erratically like the best of them

I’ve been working on these for quite some time. If anyone out there can help me out, I’m open ears.

Sideline Therapy

Its been a wacky week, as I am sure many of you have had at one time or another. Sadly, blogging took a back seat, but I am back, refreshed, ready to type for my avid reader(s). You can't stop me now!

I last blogged about soccer, specifically women's soccer. Yes, I know what you are thinking. You dawg Rusty! Coaching women's soccer! I'm sure you have ulterior motives for that choice, right? Well no, actually in my 17 years of coaching, I have never dated a player. Have I coached some attractive women? You betcha! I've coached women who have been models, fitness trainers, gymnasts, figure skaters, hot nannies (think Elin Woods), playboy playmates, porn stars and Ivanka Trump. OK, I lied about those last 3, but it could happen.

I've also coached cross-dressers, women who look like men, and even women who ultimately became men. Its not about how they look, as I view them all more like little sisters....little sisters who like to kick balls and wear sports bras - not that I've been noticing of course.

So we had a game this week. I'm on the sidelines doing my coach thing, you know, looking all cool and important and making notes about stuff so I don't forget. The game is a bit dull, so my mind wanders to other topics... man, does my ankle hurt. I wonder why it is still hurting? I think I need to stop at the drug store on the way home. Wow, look at that cool boat on the water - I wish I had a camera. That is one ugly dog. I wish I was not allergic to dogs. I want to throw a Frisbee into the ocean and see if my dog would jump in and chase it. I bet that ugly one would. How long would it take me to swim under that bridge and back? I bet I could do it if I had flippers on my hands. I need something to eat. I'm thinking Chinese food. Yeah, fried rice would be nice right now. I hope I have some cash in my car. I know I have a lot of coins. I need to wash my car. Then WHAM! We scored!

Clearly, I'm in pretend mode now. After finding out who scored, I decide this would be a great moment to scream out to everyone:

“That’s how we do it ladies!"
"Well done, just like in practice!"
"Keep up the pressure team!”

I felt like one of those morons at golf tournaments who would scream out “You da man” every time Tiger Woods would drop a putt. If there’s was a list of random things to scream at soccer games I’m sure I screamed out some of the top lines. And without cue cards too! I read that professional athletes often never see who scored for their team, as they are too busy drinking Gatorade or being obstructed by the cameramen, refs and coaches blocking their view. I figure most of them are actually eyeballing the stands for skanks, but thats purely a guess.

Feeling so much better about what I shouted, I decide this would be a great time to identify to my substitutes on the sideline how important it is to be in the right positions and to persist through adversity...yadda yadda yadda. Was it applicable advice? Of course. Was it based on what I saw - heck no! Could the players tell I did not notice what had just happened? Well I, like most men, naively think women don't notice stuff like that, so the answer was most likely yes they noticed.

We would go on to score 2 more, and lead 3-0 at half time. Then the other team quit. Yup, I said quit. They decided that since 5 of them were injured and should not have played, one thinks she's pregnant, one is real tired from a long day, and one is angry at another one, they would not be able to hold it together for the second half, and would rather leave. If you think this is odd, its actually not the first time this has happened to me. But you certainly don't expect it. We decided to play with ourselves, errr play an inter-squad game to fill the time.

As I was driving home, proud of the fact we won another one, I started to ask myself, why do I enjoy coaching women? Is it because they are better listeners than men from a coaches perspective? Perhaps. Maybe its because they are easy to be around, easy to talk to, easy to teach, they always listen to my crap? Speaking of crap, darn, I forgot to buy that Chinese food.

I’m Rusty and I like broccoli!

Hi, I’m Rusty and I like meat

I'm always intrigued at how some people introduce themselves, including the small talk initiated when first meeting someone. Last night, at my soccer game, I asked all the players to introduce themselves and tell everyone what position they play on the team, given we have a number of new people who don't know everyone.

The first person to speak, a player I have coached for at least 6 years, immediately spouts out " Hi, I'm Millie, I play goalie and forward, and I like meat." This is a G-rated blog, so we'll all assume she was referring to food. Of course, what ensued for the next 14 people was a quick hello, and their status on meat consumption. Hilarious, a great ice-breaker, but at the same time, very unusual.

For perspective, recognize this is the same player who once showed up to a game wearing a bright tangerine orange hoodie with the name "Kristin" emblazoned on the back. When I asked her why she was wearing it, she said why not, since it only cost $2 at some thrift store.

Watching the Celebrity Apprentice this past weekend, "The Don" decided to introduce another sibling into the show mix. Apparently, there are more of them. Who knew? The newest Trump to grace this show was Eric, the third child he had with Ivana. He also has the same unique comb over hair, and bears a striking resemblance to Donald, more so than other older 2 kids. I had to Google him to find out he is an Executive VP in the Trump empire (gotta love that nepotism), 3 years young than Ivanka, but at least 25 years older than her boobs.

When Don introduced Eric, he said something to the effect of "This is Eric, my other son. He is a Georgetown graduate." Well good on you Eric. My opinion of you has already been altered. Not.

As a side note, both Ivanka and Donald Jr. were Wharton Business School graduates, which Don Sr. ranted and raved about way back when since he of course is an alum of there too, and clearly, that school is "the BEST". So I guess either Eric is the black sheep of the house, or perhaps spent more time avoiding the legacy of the other family members. Not that Georgetown is a bad school. But its not Wharton, which Don seems to believe creates business gods. As an aside, I went to the same school as Alex Trebek. What is "Bazinga!"

So why is it important to share school affiliation with an introduction? Do people from Harvard tell everyone they went there? Perhaps, but in the first sentence out of their mouth? Maybe by sharing that, you are attempting to justify the credibility of your child, as if to think the son of Trump is nothing more than a disciple the great one, and would be lucky to be working at Mcds if not for the Trump name. Donald is a wee bit of a braggart, so I expect nothing less, but at the same time, who are you really trying to impress. Now if Donald had said something to the effect of "This is Eric. I've ignored him on this show for 8 seasons, but we've run out of people who still like me", that might have caught my attention. Not as much as Ivanka's fake rack (can you tell I am still obsessed by that).

When I meet people for the first time, I usually say something to the effect of "Hi, I'm Rusty. Pleased to meet you" looking them straight in the eyes boxer style, while trying to give the grip of death to their hand as a reminder that they met me. Better to be gripper than the grippee I say. If someone tried to shake my hand back just as hard, I refuse to let go until they do. We could stand there for days, but I rely upon my higher pain threshold to win that one every time.

I guess I’ll have to change my intro. “Hi, I’m Rusty and I like meat.”

The Eagle has Landed

I know I was in the middle of my LA trip update, but I must take a detour to talk about something different.

Yesterday, while at soccer, I saw and heard the most horrifying thing. At the field, there is an eagles nest. Its fairly obvious, and periodically, you see the eagle sitting there checking out our lovely ladies teams kicking the ball around. He’s a pretty good fan, making little noise and while flying around every once in a while, never flying anywhere near us.

On the other side of the street is a food wholesaler, produce and dry goods mostly. As such, there are a large number of seagulls which hover around the food place. I'm sure they see us over at the field, but thankfully, they have avoiding visiting our area to drop a dump on us or whatever it is seagulls do when they are flying around.

So yesterday, we hear a huge screaming from some seagulls. When we look up, we see the eagle, flying back to its nest, gripping a captured seagull in its talons. Other seagulls are screaming their heads off and somewhat chasing the eagle, but clearly being scared, fly off in the other direction for fear of being the next meal victim.

So for the next 30 minutes, we hear the captured seagull screaming for its life as the eagle has its way. Needless to say, they were not playing cards. Probably the most mortifying thing I've heard in a while. I half debated throwing a rock or something, but realizing that the same eagle could chase us, or worse, I would miss wildly and peg off some kid on the teeter-totter, I thought better.

What a way to go though. Flying around, minding your business, looking for yummy lettuce and tossed out fruit, only to be captured mid-air by some other meaner bird, who takes you home for dinner. Chasing salad to being the salad.

At the same time, most people have difficulty swatting flies. Can you imaging trying to catch another bird in mid air, especially given how well birds turn and change directions. I’d be that eagle flying around chasing only to hit a tree by accident or better yet, flying into an electrical wire and zapping myself.

I’m off KFC for a while I think. Nah, I’ll still eat it.