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tire time (ns)

10/15/2014

7 Comments

 
Rated PG-13. 
Picture of wounded ankle.  
Picture
Picture

Outside right ankle. The "upper dorsumas" area.
My foot resting on a dilapidated shoe.
Tire marks still visible on ankle. Bad tire. 


What do you do when you’re run over by a car’s tire? Hope they roll off, for starters. It’s as though Orlando Pace and Nate Newton decided to tackle you on one part of your body. You quickly review what just happened. “Sitting in parking lot, waiting for car to leave. Another car backs into me from behind. Woman in car acts weird. Then she flees the scene. I try to get her plate number and stop her. Car still rolling. I slip. Car runs over my ankle. Red shoes, scuffed. New Khakis, not new anymore. Coffee, not drunken yet. Esteban! Esteban!!!”

CUT TO:
Doctor's Office, Lobby 

Receptionist
So she ran into your car and fled the scene?

Me
Fled the scene.

Receptionist
So she ran over your foot?

Me
Yes.

Receptionist 
What did the police and insurance say? 

Me
They explained that as a responsible adult I should have let the driver damage my car and flee the scene. According to them I was wrong for trying to get her license plate number in an area without a cross walk. According to them "this is the world we live in today." 

Receptionist
They wanted you to just take it? 

Me
Just take it. 

Receptionist
Ran over your foot?

Me
Ran it over. Then reversed off of it, technically. At this point I didn’t know. I was lying down. I told myself "just go with it; be one with the tire; don't fight the tire." There was a car sitting on my ankle. I think it’s the upper dorsamus.

Receptionist
I’m pretty sure it’s not that.

Me
Sure.

Receptionist
And you just bought those Khakis yesterday?

Me
On sale.

CUT TO: 
Doctor’s Room

Doctor
So you got run over by a car?

Me
Cee.

Doctor
Looks like they ruined your red shoe.

Me
Cee.

Doctor
Did you get their insurance?

Me
Cee.

Doctor
What are you going to do?

Me
Sue.

(Thanks Jack Benny.)

Say what you will, had Tom Cruise been there, the Scientologist, he would have taken control, immediately, for the good of us all. He would have followed these steps:

First, separate the parties.

Second, acquire data.

Third, process data.

Fourth, subdue the situation.

Fifth, speak to the parties involved, taking notes, remaining calm.

Sixth, make certain no one is on any prescribed medication. (If so, offer a natural alternative.)

CUT TO:
Police officer arrives on scene

Officer
(to Cruise)
Get oughta here! That’s my job you freak.

CUT TO:
My Apartment

“No more soccer. No more badminton. No more basketball. Confined to quarters for undetermined amount of time. Pain pills not powerful enough. Forced to listen to The Cure on Pandora. Upper dorsamus in great pain. Watching Charlie Rose re-runs. Esteban! Esteban!!!”


Picture
Pictures of Fabio always ease the pain. 
7 Comments

ideas 

10/12/2014

1 Comment

 
New ideas can be frightening. So can old ones. 
1 Comment

uniforms of old

10/11/2014

2 Comments

 
Picture
What a great shirt for the U.S. team. Where'd this look go? 

Picture
And, for the life of me, I can't even begin to imagine what kind of brainstorming session this Iran uniform went through. "Hold it, hold it, wait, wait, I got it! All green with letters that say... 'Iran.' Pretty cool huh?" 

The shirt Derek Zoolander could've worn to the "after after" party, mistaking it for a marathon advertisement. Simple, elegant, one word. 

Tim Gunn, "Everybody, I have returned from Iran, on paid leave by the Shah of Persia, who conscripted me to design this divine piece. It's made of the finest, rarest, most delicate silk with imported Egyptian fiber cotton soaked in the Nile for seventy-two hours, hand-delivered by camelback...who am I kidding? It's just a T-shirt."




2 Comments

delusions of ping pong (ns)

10/10/2014

4 Comments

 
Too many people walk around in life thinking that someday they’ll end up being an astronaut. First of all, if you’re not an astronaut then don’t say you’re an astronaut. If you’re a bartender and you have dreams of becoming an astronaut, it doesn’t matter – you’re not an astronaut. You’re a bartender. You might want to be an astronaut. But you’re a bartender. Furthermore, it takes great skill and training to become an astronaut. If you’re a thirty-five-year old man, and your goal is to become an astronaut, and your highest level of education is a high school diploma with one semester in the drama department at a junior college, then (with all due respect) you have a much better chance of becoming the Village Idiot, if you aren’t already, than becoming an astronaut. Most people do not possess the skill or appropriate training to even fill out the application for being a janitor at NASA. The odds of becoming an NFL football player and winning the Super Bowl are greater than becoming an astronaut. You’re not an astronaut.
   People live within a world of delusions. 
   I was really good at Ping Pong (delusion number one). I think the guys I played with would agree (delusion number two). In fact, I spent two years of my life – two long years – playing in a league, like a crazy fanatic. All I thought about was Ping Pong. During a job interview I was asked why I needed the job. I told them, simply, “The fees at my Ping Pong league increased.” They laughed. I don’t know why, because it was true. For some reason the manager in charge of making our lives more difficult raised the weekly rates, so I needed another job. I loved the damn game. Despite not playing for ten years, I still do.
   Within the playing community there are about five levels, five being the best, and one being the lowest. Realistically, I was about a three and a half. I could play with the five’s – who were Chinese Olympic level guys – and they’d humor me, rallying back and forth, dispelling the myth that they were above the common man. But they really yearned to play with guys at their level. Deep down I accepted this. I knew this to be true. I knew I was not a five, and that I’d never be a five.
   One guy I played, a guy who thought he was a four, went ballistic when I beat him three games to one. He started yelling at me, throwing a tantrum, telling me I was terrible. I decided to keep quiet. I let him get it out. He wore indoor soccer shoes. I imagined what he was like on a soccer field; going mad, losing his mind at any given moment. I figured his Soccer Mom filled him with nonsense his whole life, such as when you’re playing Ping Pong and you think you’re a four – when you’re actually a three – and someone beats you make sure you let everyone know how good you think you are by yelling and screaming at the top of your lungs like a maniac. Because we all know how important Ping Pong is. And then he left. He got in his car and left, screeching out of the parking lot. His feelings were hurt; his ego was destroyed. He had been kissing up to all the fives – taking private lessons from them, trying to talk with them. Though, I really didn’t see him as a four. It was just how he saw himself. In his mind a level below him wasn’t allowed to win. This was an attitude that transcended amongst the ranks. If you beat the organizer (who was a two) in a league match he wouldn’t sign you up for the weekend tournament that was invite only. The threes were insulted to have to play someone from the twos, the fours hated the threes, the fives sat on a thrown above everyone else, laughing at the fact that the 4.5’s even considered themselves in their league, while the one’s were outcast as untouchables. He was convinced all this hype he’d created around himself would now be diminished in the eyes of the fives. As far as he was concerned he may as well have been banished to the untouchables.
   All the fives started early in life, practicing day-in and day-out, mastering the technique and skill required to be good. Most of them were neurotic bad asses that had spent countless hours honing their craft. They developed that eye-hand coordination and muscle memory that is essential in Ping Pong. I played throughout my life, but not like that. I never had a community available to provide me with that outlet, a high competitive level these guys had. I never walked around saying, “You know, I’m gonna be a level five someday. And you know what? I’m gonna be in the Olympics!” This is insane. Let astronauts be astronauts.  
4 Comments

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    (NS) refers to "Non-Soccer" related blog entries, stories and essays.

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    Shane Stay, author of The Euro 2020, The World Cup 2018 Book, Why American Soccer Isn't There Yet.

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