The ALS Ice Bucket Challenge, and Why We Do It

            On June 1, 1925, New York Yankees manager Miller Huggins needed someone to pinch hit for shortstop Pee Wee Wannninger. He went to his bench and chose a 22 year-old left-handed hitter named Lou Gehrig. The next day, Gehrig took over the regular first base duties from Wally Pipp and for the next fourteen years, he never missed a game. While compiling an implausible streak of 2,130 consecutive games, Gehrig played through illness, broken bones, and concussions, never once complaining, never once asking for a break. During that span, he put up numbers that still have not been surpassed by a first baseman to this day, including most RBI’s, most runs scored, and highest on-base percentage, among others. Nicknamed “The Iron Horse,” it appeared as if nothing could stop Lou Gehrig. But when the 1939 season rolled around, the 37 year-old All-Star suddenly lost all the power in his swing and all of his speed on the base paths. On May, 2^nd, Gehrig benched himself. He would never again play another game of baseball. Two years later, he would be dead.

            Lou Gehrig suffered from Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), also known as motor neuron disease (MND), or Charcot disease. In the United States today, it is commonly referred to as Lou Gehrig’s disease, named after its most famous victim. ALS is a neurodegenerative disease characterized by muscle spasticity, muscle atrophy, dysarthria, dysphagia, and dyspnea. In layman’s terms, the disease causes its victim’s muscles to stop working, usually to the point where they can’t move, and eventually to the point where they can’t even speak, swallow, or breathe. The majority of people diagnosed with ALS will die within three to five years from the onset of symptoms. There is no cause for ALS. There is no cure.

            Two months ago, barely anybody in the United States knew what ALS even was. Personally, only because he's my favorite baseball player of all time, I did know that Lou Gehrig died from a horrible disease that now bears his name, but that’s about it. I didn’t know that it was called ALS. I didn’t realize that it killed so quickly. I didn’t realize that there is still so little that can be done for its victims. Like most people, I didn’t know much. And then people started pouring buckets of ice water over their heads.

            Cold water challenges, such as the “polar plunge,” have been around for a long time, often used to raise money for charity, but never before has such a challenge taken over the hearts and minds of an entire country. The ALS Ice Bucket Challenge first gained national attention on June 30^th of this year when personalities on the Golf Channel performed the challenge live on-air. On July, 15, Hall of Fame golfer Greg Norman challenged Matt Lauer to perform the task on the The Today Show. The rest, as they say, is history.      

But with anything that gains national attention, there will be naysayers. Some Catholic organizations have called for a boycott due to the use of embryonic stem cells in ALS research. So, I guess it’s all right to cover up years of child molestation inside the church, but not to attempt to cure a horrific disease. Pamela Anderson has criticized the challenge due to the use of animal experimentation in ALS research. Hey Pamela, how do you think they developed all that makeup you’re wearing, and those products you put in your hair, and your fake boobs? Others have noted the waste of water, or the carbon footprint caused by producing the ice. To all those people: Do you have a lawn? Do you take daily showers? Do you drive a car? Are you alive? Then maybe you shouldn’t be pointing fingers. Others accuse the challenge of being self-congratulatory, focusing on fun rather than donating. But if that was the case, then how has the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge raised several years’ worth of donations in just a few weeks’ time?

            If you do a little research, it’s easy to find something wrong with any charity. Lance Armstrong created an entire foundation to help draw attention away from the fact that he was a lying cheater, but did it help people nonetheless? The CEO of Goodwill pays himself a higher salary than any other CEO of a non-profit organization, but isn’t he still giving less fortunate people a shot at a better life? The Susan G. Komen Foundation sues other charities for using the term “race for the cure,” but aren’t they still making an impact when it comes to the fight against breast cancer?

The point is that every organization has its faults. If you don’t want to give to a charity due to your personal beliefs, then simply choose another charity to support. The 2013 “word of the year” was “selfie.” Is that the kind of narcissistic world you want to live in? At least, for the first time in a long time, our public conscience has shifted from self-obsession to helping others. And sure, it might just be a fad, and next month we’ll probably forget all about it and move onto something else, but I don’t recall so much negative controversy over the Harlem Shuffle, which didn’t raise any money for any worthy cause. At least the Ice Bucket Challenge is helping to open our eyes. I mean, seriously, how much did you know about ALS two months ago?

I was nominated to do the Ice Bucket Challenge by my friend Chris, and in turn, he pledged to donate a sum of money to a local Portland non-profit. I in turn nominated my entire bicycle race team, pledging $2 for each person who completes the task. If everybody does it, it will be over $50, which may not seem like much, but it’s what I can give. And since the ALS foundation seems to being doing just fine right now when it comes to charitable contributions, I will be donating to the Boys and Girls Club of America, an organization that had a large impact on my life growing up. So, choose a charity, choose a challenge, have some fun while you’re at it, and take pride in what our society is accomplishing right now. I know I am.

Playing the Ponies

According to the Chinese Zodiac, 2014 is the Year of the Horse, so what better time to celebrate these magnificent creatures? But how does one celebrate an animal? Dogs and cats are easy—you simply purchase one and love it with all of your heart. Pigs and cows are even easier—you simply purchase a piece of one and eat it with all of your appetite. But horses are a bit trickier. Sure, I could buy a horse, but living in an urban setting with a backyard smaller than a volleyball court, it just doesn’t seem feasible. And, yes, I could eat a horse, but I already do that every time I go to Taco Bell. Another option would be to get involved in a riot so large that the mounted patrol needs to be called in, but then again, being clubbed in the face by a police officer on a horse isn’t really much of a celebration, is it? So, I’m going with the easiest, most practical option—off to the racetrack!

Horseracing is one of the world’s oldest sports. As long as humans have been riding the animals, we’ve been racing them, dating all the way back to Ancient Greece, Babylon, Syria, and Egypt. Today, horseracing is practiced all over the world, ranging from sprint distances as short as a few hundred yards to multi-day endurance races traversing courses over 500 miles long. Some races incorporate obstacles, others, harnesses, but the most common are simple flat races, typically run around an oval track, with a horse carrying a jockey. Still, flat races can be run at several different distances, and are generally broken down into two categories: conditions races and handicap races. In conditions races, every horse carries the same amount of weight, while in handicap races, each horse is assigned a weight depending on their ability. And if any of this seems complicated to you, wait until you here about the betting.

Win. Place. Show. Exacta. Trifecta. Superfecta. Daily Double. Pick Three. Pick Four. Pick Five. Besides the word “win,” if you aren’t familiar with horseracing, the rest of those terms would probably seem foreign to you. And they’re just the tip of the iceberg. When you initially look at a standard race program, you’d think one would need a Ph.D. to interpret all the signs, symbols, abbreviations, and numbers. For every horse in every race, the program appears to describe every possible detail, from the horses past race results to the course conditions during those races; from the post position to the stretch call; from the size of the field to the wind conditions; from the Equibase® Pace Figure to the Equibase Speed Figure®; from who used to own it to who currently owns it; from who trains it to which jockey races it. Plus more. Much more! For a layman, it’s downright intimidating. And that’s why I base all of my picks solely on the horse’s name.

It’s a sunny Sunday at Portland Meadows, and since this is a live sporting event, I’m ready to yell at some horses! (see: An Idiot’s Guide to Yelling, 7/22/14). It’s the third race of the day, at a distance of 5 ½ furlongs (a furlong is 220 yards, or 1/8 mile), and I’ve just won a $10 gambling voucher for sinking a beanbag in a corn hole. Now, I only need to decide which horse to bet on, and even though there are only seven horses in the field, four of them have outstanding names: Southern Influence, Street Jive, Call For The Wild, and JJ’s Gypsy. I go with my gut and throw everything down on Call For The Wild to show, which means he only has to come in the top three. Before the race even begins, my horse won’t get into the gate. I take that as a good sign—he’s antsy; he wants to race. The bell rings and they’re off. Call For The Wild has a horrible start—last place. He passes a horse on the back stretch, and two more around the turn. One more and I’m in the money! Here they come, down the home stretch. Kirkoroth’s in the lead; JJ Gypsy sitting pretty in second. The battle is for third. Call For The Wild and Street Jive are neck and neck. They’re approaching the finish line. Looks like it’s going to be a photo-finish…and Call For The Wild takes it by a nose! Just like that, I turn ten dollars into thirteen dollars. Do you realize how much Taco Bell I can buy with that?

A White American Male on India Pale Ale

For the love of beer, I drink. Since before I can remember, it has been my alcoholic beverage of choice. Sure, there was a short period in my life when I dabbled in hard liquor, and an even shorter phase when I became somewhat obsessed with wine—very, very cheap wine. But for the most part, it’s always been beer that has satisfied my craving for a drink after a long day. Or after a short day. Or, on a rare occasion, first thing in the morning.

I began drinking beer as a young child, stealing sips from my father’s Schmitt’s, and enjoyed the taste from the very first time it touched my tongue. When I was in high school, it was mostly Labatt’s or Molson (I grew up very close to the Canadian border), and in college, whatever was cheapest, usually Milwaukee’s Best or Natural Ice—two of the foulest tasting beers on Earth (in those days, consuming beer had little to do with flavor). I then wasted most of my young adulthood throwing back 16 ounce longnecks of Genesee, before moving to the West Coast at the age of 25 and realizing for the first time, just how little I really knew about beer.

Microbreweries have changed the way I think about beer. I used to think that beer was beer. Sure, the cheaper the beer, the worst it tasted, but it all primarily had a flavor somewhat similar to one another. Craft brews, on the other hand, taught me that different beers can have different tastes, along with aromas, thicknesses, and even hangovers. I’ve enjoyed beers that have been flavored with everything from coffee and chocolate to blueberries and bourbon. I tried everything I could get my lips on and it didn’t take me long to figure out that the India Pale Ale (IPA) was my beer of choice. But just because you know which type of beer you prefer, doesn’t mean you know which brewer makes your favorite. So, that’s exactly what I set out to discover.

The advertisement in the paper said, “Work for beer!” so I signed up to volunteer at the Portland International Beerfest. In return for free entry the next day, which included a tasting glass and ten drink tickets, I poured beer for drunk people for three hours. It was somewhat strange to find myself on the opposite side of the bar, handing others beer instead of drinking it myself, but I held strong all night and never once snuck a sip. The time actually flew by, thanks to having one of the more popular beers at the festival: a one-ticket sampler for an IPA called “Hoppy Bitch.” All night, drunken people—mostly young males—handed me their tickets just so they could say the words “Hoppy Bitch” and laugh. A great marketing ploy, if you ask me, for I certainly planned on returning the following night for a taste myself.

In the early 18^th century, when Britain was colonizing India, the beer they sent to their troops was oftentimes spoiling because of the long sea voyage. They solved this horrific problem by adding more hops and alcohol, both having natural preservative value. Thus, the IPA was born. Recently, the West Coast has become a hotbed for IPA production, with breweries often pushing the envelope with strength and bitterness. IPA’s tend to have an ABV (Alcohol by Volume) of 5%-7.5%, and an IBU (International Bitter Unit) between 40 and 65. The higher the IBU, the more bitter the beer.

I spent Saturday afternoon conditioning my pallet with various IPAs and studying the Beerfest program, determining exactly which beers I needed to sample. Though it’s an “international” beer festival, only one brewery from outside the U.S. was contributing an IPA. I decided, that to find out which one was the best, I would try every one that was two tickets or less (It’s not that I believe that expensive beers aren’t worthy, but I’d rather not become obsessed with something I simply can’t afford to drink on a regular basis). Unfortunately, many of the IPA’s were already sold out by Saturday night (including the “Hoppy Bitch”), but here’s a list of all the ones I tried:

·         Ninkasi Total Domination

·         Lagunitas Sucks

·         Caldera IPA

·         Lompoc Pamplemouse IPA

·         Firestone Walker Wooky Jack Black Rye IPA

·         Lagunitas Maximus

·         Lagunitas A Little Sumpin’ Wild Ale

·         Brewdog Brewery Libertine Black Ale (Scotland)

·         Brewdog Brewery Hardcore IIPA (Scotland)

·         Fort George The Optimist

One would think that when tasting this many beers in a row, they would all taste quite similar by the end—that your judgment would be too impaired to choose a favorite. But with IPAs, that’s simply not the case. Each IPA has such a distinct flavor, depending on its strength and the type and amount of hops used, that you will almost instantly know if it’s the right beer for you. For me, the right beer was easy to choose. Out of the ten I tried, there was one that was far and away my favorite. The clear winner—Brewdog Breweries Hardcore IIPA (sorry West Coast breweries, but Scotland has you all beat).

Take into account that these were just the beers I tried on this one day. There are plenty of other IPA’s that I truly love. Please use the comment section below to add your favorite. 

How to Circumnavigate Mount Hood in 100 Miles or Less

Mount Hood is one the most accessible mountains in the world. Thousands of people go up it every year and even more go down—it is home to the only ski lift that operates 365 days a year—but few people take the time to circumnavigate the active volcano, at least in something other than an automobile. So, on a scorching hot summer day, my good friend Dave and I set out to accomplish just that.

We head out early—6:30 a.m.—to ride some big miles. Dave meets me at my house near Mt. Tabor and we take the 205 bike path south before heading east on the Springwater Corridor, which is named after the former railroad line that followed the same route from 1903 to 1989, before it was converted into the 21 mile paved recreational trail that now sees over one million users annually. In the town of Boring, the trail disappears and we cross Highway 212, taking SE Richie Rd until it ends, and then a left on SE Kelso Rd. The rolling country roads provide little to no shoulder, but make up for it with the most incredible of backdrops—we take in an awe-inspiring view of Mount Hood, which from the west appears as beautiful as any mountain, anywhere in the world. Because it’s the weekend, and because it’s early, there is little traffic, and much to my surprise, not one hillbilly in an oversized truck slows down to yell at us (see: An Idiot’s Guide to Yelling, July 22, 2014).

When we hit Rt. 26, also known as the Mt. Hood Highway, we have a choice to make: take a right and ride with heavy traffic on the super busy four-lane highway, or go straight and take the longer, hillier, more relaxing, scenic route. We opt for the scenic route, dodging traffic across 26 like characters in Frogger, and continuing straight on Kelso Rd until it ends. We take a right on SE Bluff Rd, follow it to Sandy, and head east through the small town, before taking a left on SE Ten Eyek Rd. We continue on this road until it turns to SE Marmot Rd, which follows a seven-mile ridge known as the “Devil’s Backbone.” It received its hellish name because it was such a daunting task for Oregon Trail pioneers to descend their wagons down it, but today the rural road is one of the most beautiful bicycle rides in all of Northwestern Oregon—highly recommended for anyone who has a morning to kill. We keep on Marmot, which eventually turns into E Barlow Trail Rd. We follow this until it ends, before taking a right on E Lolo Pass Rd, which brings us into the town of Welches and back to Route 26. There’s a café/bakery on the corner—the last stop for supplies for a long while. We opt to cross the highway to use the bathroom and fill our water bottles at the US Ranger Station.

Again we have another choice and again we decide to bypass Highway 26, riding east along its shoulder for less than a mile, before swinging a right on Still Creek Road. The pavement quickly ends and we head up the gradual incline of a narrow dirt road that parallels the small stream for which it got its name. There are no other vehicles in the thick forest, which is overgrown with tall monstrous pines whose shade keeps us cool from the late-morning sun. The road spits us out at Trillium Lake, where Dave gets a flat tire, which isn’t a big deal, because if you’re going to get a flat, there’s no better place to have it happen than at Trillium Lake, where the scenery is as good as it gets. As he works on his bike, we are granted an awe-inspiring view of Mount Hood, which from the south appears as beautiful as any mountain, anywhere in the world.

We take Trillium Lake Road back to Highway 26 and then follow the Mount Hood Highway as it heads north and becomes Route 35. We climb up to Bennett pass, which at 4,650 feet is as high as we’ll reach all day, and then go for a ride as we descend down the other side. We don’t quite reach 40 mph, but we come close as we tuck our bodies in as low as we can and bomb down a slope that seems to go on for so long that I eventually start to look forward to some more uphill. It eventually flattens out and we take a left on Baseline Rd and follow it into the tiny town of Parkdale. I look up at the mountain to my left and it reminds me of an enormous ice cream sundae with hot fudge swirls. This is a bad sign—if you start dreaming about food while riding big miles, that usually means it’s too late; that usually means you should have eaten thirty minutes ago. Fortunately, Parkdale has many food options to choose from—a brewery, a burger joint, and a BBQ. Unfortunately, we’re short on time and have to settle for a quick bite from the local grocery store. We eat a small lunch of deli wraps, chips, and bottles of soda, as we marvel at an awe-inspiring view of Mount Hood, which from the east appears as beautiful as any mountain, anywhere in the world.

We’re back on our bikes in no time, following the Dee Highway north before taking a left on Lost Lake Road. It’s close to 100 degrees outside and what shade we should have disappeared with the trees when the area was clear-cut for lumber. The sun bakes us as we travel uphill towards Lolo Pass. When we leave Lost Lake Road for the unpaved NF-18 (National Forest Route 18), the forest reappears, as does the cool shade, but it might be too late—the heat has gotten to Dave. He gets off his bike and pukes up his lunch. It’s sad to see a perfectly good meal go to waste, but it’s even worse to see a fellow rider in such agony. This will turn out to be the longest ride Dave has ever done in his entire life, but right now we still have fifty miles to go.

Normally, I might be concerned; I might be wondering how we’re going to get out of these woods. But with Dave, I’m not worried, for he’s one of the toughest men I’ve ever had the pleasure to know (when he’s not completing epic bicycle rides, he’s choking people out at jiu-jitsu tournaments). And I don’t know what you would expect a tough guy to do in a situation like this, but I’d expect him to drink some mountain water straight out of a stream and get back on his bike without complaining. And that’s precisely what Dave does. We complete the 3,415 foot climb up Lolo’s pass, which brings us so close to the mountain’s peak that you feel as if you can almost reach out and touch it—an absolutely awe-inspiring view of Mount Hood, which from the north appears as beautiful as any mountain, anywhere in the world.

We fly down Lolo Pass Road, which is paved, and find ourselves again in the town of Welches, filling up our water bottles at the Ranger Station. On the way back, we opt to take the more direct route, riding with traffic on Route 26, back to the city. The entire ride comes out to just over 160 miles, with almost 11,000 feet of elevation gain. But if you want to do just the loop and say that you circumnavigated Mount Hood, then I would suggest driving to the Welches Ranger Station and parking in their large lot. From there, the ride should be about 80 miles, completely circling Mt. Hood, which from any angle appears as beautiful as any mountain, anywhere in the world.

A Short Piece on Short Track

           

The whistle blows and we’re off. A couple dozen lead riders fly past their teammates who are waiting patiently in line on either side of the course. We shoot up a tabletop jump and dive down its back side. Another quick mound, up and down, and then a sharp 180 degree turn. We muscle to keep our tires in the thin, smooth, worn-down path that has been broken in tonight by the constant pounding of a thousand-plus tires. I take it a bit too fast. My back tire slides out, causing my bike to momentarily veer off into the rough stuff, getting my money’s worth out of my front shock. I adjust in time to hold off the pack of riders who are chasing close behind.

                   

I’m sitting pretty, in fifth place, hanging on to the rear wheel of the rider in front of me. We ride up a banked turn to the left before shooting back down to the right. Another sharp left over a small hump, but we take it a bit too fast. The kid in front of me goes down. I don’t think—there’s no time to think—I simply react. I instantaneously jerk my handlebars to the left, hoping to skirt around my fallen competitor, but the gravel is too loose and I slide out, the left side of my body skidding across the hard dirt, taking a patch of skin from the bottom of my knee with it. As fast as I go down, I’m up, on my bike and back in the race. “Nice recovery,” a fellow racer says as he passes me. It was a nice recovery, for only a few riders are able to pass, but the damage is done—I’ve burped my front tire. It’s got about two pounds of pressure left in it, and I still have the majority of the loop to complete.

                   

Mondays are usually not the day of the week that most people look forward to. For most people, Mondays mean back to work. But for those of us who participate in the Portland Short Track Series, there are eight Mondays during the summer that mean only one thing—race day! And instantly, Monday doesn’t seem so bad anymore. In fact, Monday suddenly becomes the best day of the week. Though the majority of riders choose to race mountain bikes, this short track series isn’t really “mountain” biking, at least not in the traditional sense. It’s more like cyclocross combined with motocross. The largest section of the course each week is an actual motocross track, complete with rolling jumps, table tops, whoop-de-dos, and banked turns. The remainder of the course can travel over a variety of terrain—loose gravel, grass, pavement, dirt, and tree roots. And though the venue never changes from week to week, the course always does.

In my opinion, of all the weekly race series that Portland has to offer, none is more fun than Short Track. It doesn’t hurt that it's summertime and that the weather is almost always beautiful, but it’s so much more than that. Short Track feels less like a competition and more like an event, where everybody’s invited and everybody is happy to be there. No matter how your race goes, no matter what place you come in, it’s next to impossible not to smile afterward. Competitors come in all shapes and sizes, all backgrounds and ages. Children who look as if they just learned to walk, race every week, and there’s no better sign for the future of the sport. On the other end of the spectrum, men and women who are old enough to be my parents—some even old enough to be my grandparents—also race each week, and there’s no better sign for my future in the sport, because if they can not only ride, but race, these technical courses at that age, it seems as if anybody can do anything if they have enough passion for it. It’s hard to watch a race, any race, in any division, and not feel inspired.

But don’t get me wrong, though Portland Short Track often feels more like a family reunion or a music festival, it is a race, and we are competing. Unlike road racing, where there seems to be an unlimited amount of strategy involved, short track is more about technique, more about being fit. Anybody can sit back in a peloton and wait for the final sprint, but in short track there is no drafting. Once that first whistle blows, you’d better be ready to race, because you can guarantee that your competitors certainly are. You have thirty to forty minutes to see how far you can push your body, to see exactly what your limits are. Because the race is so short, you practically have to go as hard as you can from start to finish, and hope that you don’t bonk, or make any mistakes, because even just one simple slip can easily ruin your race. Which has just happened to me right now.

After sixteen races in nine weeks, almost a hundred laps around this track, I somehow wait until my final one to fall for the first time. And though I do get up fast, my tire is practically flat—rubber riding on rim. If this was any other week, there’s a good chance I’d drop out of the race and take that dreadful DNF, but tonight is different—tonight I have an entire team counting on me. Nine fellow riders waiting for their turn to go. So, I ride it out, keeping my weight as far back as I can, crawling over obstacles, inching around turns. Riders pass me at will. Riders that I would usually smoke. But there’s not much else I can do, but sit back and pedal. I finally come around the last turn and slap the hand of the teammate waiting for me. I’m disappointed, but still, I can’t help but smile. The race goes on. Our team finishes strong. And we crack beers and celebrate the season in style. Now Mondays are just Mondays again. And all we can do is count down the days—only 41 more weeks until Short Track season starts!

            

An Idiot's Guide to Yelling

          

We were having a wonderful outing, my girlfriend and I. It was her first bicycle tour, and though I had previously ridden across the United States twice, it was the first time I had ever traveled by bike with a female companion. The weather was perfect, warm and sunny, and the route was easy, flat and straight. It’s about a thirty mile ride from Portland, Oregon to the small town of Estacada, which sits at the base of Mount Hood on its eastern side. Half that distance can be traveled on a bicycle path, while the remaining fifteen miles are on country roads. After traveling through the aptly-named town of Boring, we left the bike path and headed down Richey Road. This is where we were riding when a man in a giant pickup truck thought it was appropriate to pull up beside me, yell obscenities out his window, rev his engine, blow exhaust in our face, and then speed off, his arm extended out the window, his middle finger high in the air. That was nice of him.

           

We arrived in Estacada by early afternoon and enjoyed lunch from the best Mexican food cart in Oregon, before heading to Milo McIver Park to camp for the night. We set up our tent in the hiker/biker site—which is only five dollars per person, per night—and then went for a swim in the cool mountain water of the Clackamas River. After playing some disk golf on one of the park’s two courses, we headed back into town to get some ice cream. On the way back to the park, another man in a giant pickup truck again thought it was appropriate to pull up beside me, yell obscenities out his window, rev his engine, blow exhaust in our face, and then speed off, his arm extended out the window, his middle finger high in the air.

           

Now, as I mentioned earlier, I’ve ridden my bicycle across the country twice, and I can’t recall either time, having anybody slow down to yell obscenities at me out of their window, and suddenly, it happens twice in a matter of hours. Perhaps it was because I had a beautiful woman with me, but regardless, yelling at anyone out your window is almost always inappropriate. What do these guys think they’re going to accomplish? Do they think I’m going to give up riding my bicycle because some redneck hillbilly yelled at me? Do they even realize that I can’t understand what they’re saying? Over the noise of their engines, their words sound about as clear as the adults on old Charlie Brown cartoons. Sure, you can always make out a few words, like “ass,” or “dick,” but then, I just assume that they’re saying such phrases as “You’ve got a really nice ass.” Or “I have a really small dick.” But everybody already knows you have a small dick by the size of your truck. There’s no need to pull up beside us to reiterate it.

           

Anyway, this recent incident has gotten me thinking about the topic of yelling, and I’ve begun to wonder if people even know when it is or isn’t appropriate to yell, so I’ve developed the following list of when and when not to yell:

Inappropriate—Men yelling out windows. Come on guys, I don’t care if you’re yelling at another man or woman, knock it off. Nobody cares what you have to say. And you look like a huge coward doing it. It doesn’t take much courage to yell at someone and then speed off. If you have something to say someone, pull over and say it to their face. Unless it’s about how small your dick is, because we already know.

Appropriate—Women yelling out windows. When women yell out windows, it’s almost always in good fun. Rarely do they do it for malicious reasons. Sometimes it can actually make a guy feel pretty good. Like this one time as I was standing outside a Walmart in Kentucky, chugging chocolate milk, when a severely obese woman yelled at me, “Milk does do a body good!” Thanks. That made my day.

Inappropriate—Yelling into a phone. There’s no need to ever yell into a phone. Phones were invented so we don’t have to yell at each other. My Eastern-European neighbor doesn’t seem to understand this. She spends at least one hour everyday yelling into her cell phone about how much she hates her husband. Just go ahead and murder him already, but please stop yelling into your phone.

Appropriate—Yelling at a sporting event. That’s really what you’re paying for when you go to a sporting event. And if it gives your home team even the slightest advantage, yell as loud as you can. But if you’re an athlete, and you have possession of the ball, and the entire audience is chanting “Defense. Defense. Defense…” Just pretend they’re saying “Offense.” Then it seems like they’re rooting for you.

Inappropriate—Yelling at a sporting event on television in a public place. You do realize that they can’t hear you? Plus, do you think the guy sitting at the barstool next to you really enjoys your beer soaked, chicken wing flavored commentary on how bad the Oakland Raiders are? We all know how bad the Oakland Raiders are.

Appropriate—Yelling at a sporting event on television in the privacy of your own home. I’m a firm believer that if you yell loud enough at a television in your living room, you can affect the outcome of the game. Why do you think the Spurs destroyed the Heat in the NBA Finals this year? You’re welcome San Antonio.

Inappropriate—Yelling in a church, at the opera, at a play, during a wedding ceremony, etc. If people are sitting down, you shouldn’t be yelling.

Appropriate—Yelling for help. If you need help, try yelling. If you just lay there quietly, you’re probably not going to get anybody’s attention.

Inappropriate—Yelling after dark in a residential neighborhood. Some of us are trying to sleep!

Appropriate—The Annual “STELLAA…” Yelling Contest in Bay St. Louis, Missississippi.

Inappropriate—Yelling on a Ferris wheel.

Appropriate—Yelling on a roller coaster.

On the fence—Heckling. Sometimes it’s alright to heckle, other times, not so much. Please use your discretion.

I hope this helps. Next time you feel the need to yell, ask yourself if it’s an appropriate situation before letting loose. Unfortunately, the people that need this most probably won’t ever read it, primarily because they’re from towns like Estacada and Boring and don’t know how to read. In conclusion, I will leave you with a quote from one of contemporary society’s most famous yellers:

“Basically, I started on stage yelling, and then I yelled some more,

and then I yelled even louder. I’m modulated now.

I’ve found that there are a lot of other ways

to get across anger without just yelling.” – Lewis Black

S.T.O.P. Treating Soccer Like a Real Sport

In my blog last week, I briefly mentioned my hatred of soccer (see: “One Week in July in America, 2014). Well, this seemed to have upset at least a few of my readers. As a result, I’ve decided it’s only fair to explain myself and make it perfectly clear why the game is so godforsaken awful. And to all you soccer fans out there, before you vow to never read my blog again, please remember that this is supposed to be comedic, and is in no way a comment on you as an individual. I like you. You aren’t horrible. Soccer is.  And here is a list of five reasons why:

#1) Soccer is boring. It is literally just a bunch of men running around, kicking a ball. And I know soccer enthusiasts will argue that there’s much more to it, like “strategy” and such, but I can assure you, there isn’t. It is nothing more than men running around, kicking a ball.

     

 #2) Soccer is boring. Games often in a score of 0-0. This is after regular time. Plus “stoppage” time, whatever that is. Plus overtime. Plus stoppage time in over time. Finally, they’ll have a shootout, which even I admit, can be quite exhilarating. So, why even play the game? Why not just have shootouts? It’s what we all really want, plus it will save you a few hours of your day otherwise wasted on watching men run around, kicking a ball.

#3) Soccer is boring. Over the past two centuries, several sports have been derived out of soccer, including rugby, hockey, and basketball. In essence, they’re basically nothing more than faster paced, more exciting, higher scoring versions of the same game. The objective hasn’t changed—put a round object in your opponent’s goal more times than they put it in yours. Even the Native Americans, in the form of lacrosse, developed a game more exciting than soccer, and they were thought to be savages.

#4) Soccer is boring. Players try desperately to make the game appear more exciting by jumping in the air every time any contact is made, and then diving on to the ground, before flopping around like a fish out of water. We know that it’s merely a ruse because they almost always immediately get back up, to continue running around, kicking a ball. Though basketball players are also known for these theatrics, at least when they take a dive, they have to land on hardwood, not soft grass.

#5) Soccer is boring.

If there are any soccer fans still reading at this point, I thank you for your patience and your ability to take a joke. But I fully understand if I have alienated all the soccer fans, for my writing is probably much too exhilarating for them to handle. And for those of you who also despise soccer and are wondering, if I hate something so much, why not just let it be? Well, that’s simple—if your friends were addicted to hard drugs, would you just let it be? I don’t see how soccer is any different. In recent years, as soccer becomes more popular in the United States, I’ve begun to lose friends to their horrible addiction. “Steve, do you want to do a bike race on Saturday?” “Sorry, I can’t. There’s a soccer game.” “Neil, come downstairs and hang out with the rest of us.” “I’ll be down when the soccer is through.” Lately it seems that the soccer is never through.

Even worse, it has recently become “cool” or “hip” to like soccer. This is how most epidemics start. In fact, the majority of people I personally know that like soccer, don’t even like sports to begin with. Now, how does that make any sense? Addiction—that’s how. They’ll have excuses of why they like the game. “I used to play,” seems to be the most popular one these days. Well, I was once forced to played soccer myself, and you know what? I hated it back then, too! I also used to play rugby, but that doesn’t mean I like watching it. And I currently race bicycles, but I certainly don’t watch bicycle races—because they’re boring!

I know that most adults are probably beyond the point of being saved, but that doesn’t mean children aren’t. Soccer enthusiasts have taken a page straight out of the drug dealer handbook and have begun to target children at a young age. When I was a child, there was a program called D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education), “to keep kids off drugs,” in which police officers would go into classrooms and try to persuade children to never do drugs (note: it didn’t work). I propose that we start a similar program called S.T.O.P. (Soccer Termination Or Prevention) “treating soccer like a real sport.” We can send true professional athletes, like basketball and hockey players, into schools to warn children of the dangers of soccer before it’s too late.

It’s going to take a lot of work to keep kids off soccer, and so, to better understand exactly what we’re dealing with, I’ve decided to take it upon myself to infiltrate a soccer crowd on the game’s biggest day. I head down to Pioneer Courthouse Square, or “Portland’s Living Room” as it’s also known, where they are showing the World Cup Finals on a giant screen. I already have a Euro-mullet, so I should fit right in, but to be extra careful, I wear an old rugby jersey, hoping that no one can tell the difference, and chug a beer, so my breath smells like everyone else’s. I’m a bit nervous. Though, I’ve been falsely accused of being a narc before (see: The World Naked Bike Ride, 6-9-14), this is the first time that I really am one.

There’s an estimated 7,000 fans at the square, and like true addicts, they can’t take their eyes off the giant screen in front of them. They hoot and holler and break into applause, even though nothing is happening—only men running around, kicking a ball. “What’s the score?” I ask a man next to me, trying to fit in. “Zero, zero,” he says in a heavy British accent (obviously). “What team are you for?” he adds. Oh, no!!!!! I’ve been had. What team? How am I supposed to know which teams are playing? I must really look like one of them—disgusting. “They both have strong squads this year,” I reply, trying desperately to save myself. “I’m more just a fan of the game, no matter who’s playing.” I scurry away, trying hard not to throw up over the words that just came out of my mouth.

I circle the crowd, trying to sneak pictures of the worse assailants. I see three men wearing scarves. Scarves! In July? The only other people who wear scarves in July are hard drug addicts. I must document this for future reference, or perhaps for an anti-soccer billboard. I raise my camera, but just as I snap my photo, one of the men turns his head. Oh, shit! I’ve been had. What do I do? Should I pretend to watch the game? But that would make me one of them. This must be how narcs feel when they’re pressured to smoke crack to prove that they’re not cops. How am I going to get out of this jam? Please God, don’t make me watch soccer…and then the rain starts, and the thunder, and the lightning. I’m saved! I pretend to run for cover and then hightail it the hell out of there. It never rains in July and there’s never lightning in Portland. God must be real, and he must hate soccer, too. 

I head for home, where there are plenty of more exciting things to do, like staring at the ceiling, or watching my grass grow. On the way, I get thinking about soccer and come to the realization that maybe we don’t need to get rid of it entirely, but simply make some changes, to make it more exciting. First of all, instead of a net, let’s make each end of the field a scoring zone, and make each goal worth, let’s say, six points. And how about we let the players use their hands—go ahead, pick up the ball and run with it, and throw it, too, if you want. And why not have them tackle each other—if they’re going to pretend to get hurt, why not really get hurt? And instead of calling it soccer, let’s call it by its real name—what the rest of the world calls it—futbol. But in our own language, of course—football. Now, that would be something worth watching!