I don't know what skunked or poodle-balled means.
And I'm using every ounce of energy trying NOT to use my imagination.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
...and making me spoon you until you fall asleep...
Do you remember a time when it was surprising and, daresay, shocking to hear Brittany Spears say...
"Whatever you got, I'll ride it, eat it or snort it."
Ahh...the days of yore, when Christina was heaven's only missing hooker. And Justin Timberlake was still white.
"Whatever you got, I'll ride it, eat it or snort it."
Ahh...the days of yore, when Christina was heaven's only missing hooker. And Justin Timberlake was still white.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
And Shazam. free coffee every hour on the hour and sometimes...
Apparently a quad of barristas in Vancouver finally snapped.
World, be warned.
World, be warned.
Friday, March 17, 2006
It went around the world...
I'm confused. Really really confused.
Wisconsin-Madison steamrolled by Zona.
Wisconsin OUT in Round 1.
Marquette knocked out by Bama.
Marquette OUT in Round 1.
Wisconsin-Milwaukee upsets Oklahoma.
Picked to pull another Cindarella on Florida.
Wisconsin-Milwaukee possibly in Sweet 16.
Again.
Example #3,888,297 of how messed up this state is.
Wisconsin-Madison steamrolled by Zona.
Wisconsin OUT in Round 1.
Marquette knocked out by Bama.
Marquette OUT in Round 1.
Wisconsin-Milwaukee upsets Oklahoma.
Picked to pull another Cindarella on Florida.
Wisconsin-Milwaukee possibly in Sweet 16.
Again.
Example #3,888,297 of how messed up this state is.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
My surfer friends, they get me. They say, Jack, we get you.
I just re-read my volleyball post from a week ago. And I'm.... I don't know.
I've never really thought too much about what sparked, and still sparks, my passion for the sport.
When I was a wee tyke, I played AYSO soccer like everyone else. I played "sweeper." Which I still don't believe is an actual position in soccer. I kind of remember having fun. I do remember that my teams didn't win much. Mom and dad like to remember that I was better than the kid on my team who liked to pick weeds and flowers during our games.
I tried playing baseball. Mostly because it was important to my dad. Baseball had been a way out of the old plantation towns and, eventually, scholarship offers from Northwestern, Michigan and a few California schools. From time to time, dad would tell a few baseball stories. Not very often, though. And, only in the last few years, he's started to talk about what it all meant in the context of the times. I tried to play baseball. It didn't work.
I did start to train and compete in kendo in the 3rd grade or so. I would think it's a kind of martial art, except the body armor weighs about 20 pounds. We used a bamboo "sword" to hit the other person. I enjoyed that. Each year, I got a little better at hitting the armored part of my teachers and opponents. I guess I got pretty good. I always got 1st or 2nd in my division at district and state tournaments. Eventually, I quit to focus on school and volleyball. I also finally figured out that it wasn't exactly a self-defense kind of martial art. I doubt a thief with a knife or a gay-basher with a gun would wait about 15 minutes while I suited up the ole body armor. And I wasn't planning on carrying around my bamboo stick -- which probably wouldn't do much against a knife or a gun anyway. Slow learner, me is, sometimes.
I wanted to play football. In 7th grade, I brought home the permission slips for my parents to sign so I could try out. Dad sent me to mom, which seemed odd. Mom took one look and said, "I'll make you a deal. I'll sign this form when you can carry the piano on your back in the marching band." I pondered that for a moment. "Does the electric piano count?" She shook her head and pointed to our piano and said, "Even if you do it, I still won't go and watch your games." Mom had spoken. Football was out.
Which brought me to volleyball. It's hard for people in the continental states to understand Hawaii's obsession with the sport. It's a little excessive. A lot excessive, actually. College volleyball players are almost godlike and get more attention than movie stars. Even opposing teams and players get stopped on the street or have their pictures placed on store walls next to rock stars and pro athletes.
Once, I was home for the holidays and threw on an MSU volleyball shirt to grab some lunch. After I ordered my chili rice and lilikoi drink, the cashier looked at me. "Do you go to Michigan State?" I said no. "Then, why would you wear that shirt? You trying to cause trouble?" No, not at all, just threw on a clean shirt to get lunch. She considered that for a moment and decided that I shouldn't be killed and stewed. Seven years earlier, Michigan State upset the then-undefeated and #1 ranked Hawaii women in the Honolulu NCAA regional final. Seven years earlier. Seven years. Seven.
Volleyball has been great to me for a long time and in a lot of ways. But, until recently, I haven't really taken a step back to look at the things I've learned. As unorthodox as it's been. Maybe I needed some time away from playing and coaching to really appreciate the things that've gotten me to this point.
I've never really thought too much about what sparked, and still sparks, my passion for the sport.
When I was a wee tyke, I played AYSO soccer like everyone else. I played "sweeper." Which I still don't believe is an actual position in soccer. I kind of remember having fun. I do remember that my teams didn't win much. Mom and dad like to remember that I was better than the kid on my team who liked to pick weeds and flowers during our games.
I tried playing baseball. Mostly because it was important to my dad. Baseball had been a way out of the old plantation towns and, eventually, scholarship offers from Northwestern, Michigan and a few California schools. From time to time, dad would tell a few baseball stories. Not very often, though. And, only in the last few years, he's started to talk about what it all meant in the context of the times. I tried to play baseball. It didn't work.
I did start to train and compete in kendo in the 3rd grade or so. I would think it's a kind of martial art, except the body armor weighs about 20 pounds. We used a bamboo "sword" to hit the other person. I enjoyed that. Each year, I got a little better at hitting the armored part of my teachers and opponents. I guess I got pretty good. I always got 1st or 2nd in my division at district and state tournaments. Eventually, I quit to focus on school and volleyball. I also finally figured out that it wasn't exactly a self-defense kind of martial art. I doubt a thief with a knife or a gay-basher with a gun would wait about 15 minutes while I suited up the ole body armor. And I wasn't planning on carrying around my bamboo stick -- which probably wouldn't do much against a knife or a gun anyway. Slow learner, me is, sometimes.
I wanted to play football. In 7th grade, I brought home the permission slips for my parents to sign so I could try out. Dad sent me to mom, which seemed odd. Mom took one look and said, "I'll make you a deal. I'll sign this form when you can carry the piano on your back in the marching band." I pondered that for a moment. "Does the electric piano count?" She shook her head and pointed to our piano and said, "Even if you do it, I still won't go and watch your games." Mom had spoken. Football was out.
Which brought me to volleyball. It's hard for people in the continental states to understand Hawaii's obsession with the sport. It's a little excessive. A lot excessive, actually. College volleyball players are almost godlike and get more attention than movie stars. Even opposing teams and players get stopped on the street or have their pictures placed on store walls next to rock stars and pro athletes.
Once, I was home for the holidays and threw on an MSU volleyball shirt to grab some lunch. After I ordered my chili rice and lilikoi drink, the cashier looked at me. "Do you go to Michigan State?" I said no. "Then, why would you wear that shirt? You trying to cause trouble?" No, not at all, just threw on a clean shirt to get lunch. She considered that for a moment and decided that I shouldn't be killed and stewed. Seven years earlier, Michigan State upset the then-undefeated and #1 ranked Hawaii women in the Honolulu NCAA regional final. Seven years earlier. Seven years. Seven.
Volleyball has been great to me for a long time and in a lot of ways. But, until recently, I haven't really taken a step back to look at the things I've learned. As unorthodox as it's been. Maybe I needed some time away from playing and coaching to really appreciate the things that've gotten me to this point.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
I have a lot of friends that like cheap Asian food and unisex bathrooms
The Girls Scouts are evil.
And if anyone knows any of these evil Girl Scouts with more of those new cookies , I need their phone number right the fuck now.
You know, the new Cartwheels: Cinnamon Oatmeal Bites.
Right now.
Yesterday, even.
Thanks
And if anyone knows any of these evil Girl Scouts with more of those new cookies , I need their phone number right the fuck now.
You know, the new Cartwheels: Cinnamon Oatmeal Bites.
Right now.
Yesterday, even.
Thanks
Friday, March 10, 2006
Eating Out For Dummies: Occam's Razor
Excerpt from page 23,
Occam's Razor
When conversing with a waiter, remember the following: Stay simple.
The following are a few questions that you, the diner, may wish to say. Followed by what you should be say.
Example #1
You may, but shouldn't: "Does your Spaghetti with Meatballs come with marinara or meat sauce? Marinara? Ok, I would like the Spaghetti with Meatballs with meat sauce instead of the marinara and meatballs."
What you should say: "I would like the Spaghetti with Meat Sauce. Yes, the item listed just above the Spaghetti with Meatballs."
Example #2
You may, but shouldn't: "I would like a virgin Bloody Mary. But, I don't want it to be spicy."
What you should say: "I would like a glass of tomato juice."
Example #3
You may, but shouldn't: "Could you wrap up the chicken in one container, the rigatoni in another container, the green beans in another container and the salad in another container."
What you should say: "Yes, please wrap our food."
And...scene.
Occam's Razor
When conversing with a waiter, remember the following: Stay simple.
The following are a few questions that you, the diner, may wish to say. Followed by what you should be say.
Example #1
You may, but shouldn't: "Does your Spaghetti with Meatballs come with marinara or meat sauce? Marinara? Ok, I would like the Spaghetti with Meatballs with meat sauce instead of the marinara and meatballs."
What you should say: "I would like the Spaghetti with Meat Sauce. Yes, the item listed just above the Spaghetti with Meatballs."
Example #2
You may, but shouldn't: "I would like a virgin Bloody Mary. But, I don't want it to be spicy."
What you should say: "I would like a glass of tomato juice."
Example #3
You may, but shouldn't: "Could you wrap up the chicken in one container, the rigatoni in another container, the green beans in another container and the salad in another container."
What you should say: "Yes, please wrap our food."
And...scene.
I feel like nesting...
My roommates think I'm a perv. Or a stalker. When we first moved in, they helped me haul up more than two crates worth of VHS tapes.
I have tapes. Lots and lots of tapes. As of yesterday, 188 to be exact. Not including movies. And that pilates series I ordered that night I got really drunk. Now that I know what's on a good number of them, it could be a little frightening for people that don't know me.
I swear it's not porn. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just not porn. I'm not that interesting.
Honest.
[3/10/06 Edit: The following is my full-blown volleyball nerd breakin on out.]
Tapes 1-30 are all volleyball games. All together, I think I have something to close to 200 matches. I'm a volleyball nerd. I've admitted as much for a long time. I know I've scared more than a few professional volleyball people with how much I can remember. Like the starting lineups of each team in every D-1 women's national championship match since 1988.
Then again, when I was in 3rd grade I could recite the introductions from Miss Alabama to Miss Hawaii from the Miss America Parade of States. With proper inflection and regional accent. That was the year Miss Texas won with a cheesy baby blue poofy prom dress.
I probably should have kept that one to myself.
But really now. I just found the 1988 National Championship match between Hawaii and Texas. The one where Martina Cincerova pretty much just set Teee Williams and Carolyn Taetafa. Anna Vorweck (Fer-verk), Karrie Trieschman and Mary Robins were pretty much just observers.
In that match, Teee Williams showed that very few other American women had what it took to go from the American college game to the international game. I believe she had something like 25 kills in the 3 game loss, .400 hitting percentage and most of the team's digs and blocks. In '88 that was absolutely unheard of, especially in a national championship game. Nobody else was hitting the ball so high over the block and so hard that the opposing defense didn't even make a move for the ball. Since then, only 4 other players have come close to, but not equaled, that performance: Kerri Walsh ('96), Lauren Cacciamani ('98), Logan Tom ('01) and Ogonna Nnamani ('04). Others had spurts of greatness: Tara Cross ('89), Natalie Williams ('91), Danielle Scott ('91, '92, '93), Kristin Folkl ('94), Terri Zemaitis ('97), Cacciamani ('99), Sherisa Livingston ('00), Tayyiba Haneef ('01) and Keao Burdine ('02, '03).
[Of course, none of those compare to watching the Unified Team's Irina Smirnova getting 56 kills in 130 attempts in ONE match or 16 year old Eugenia Artamanova's 14 kills, hitting almost .900 while only playing 3 rotations per game in the same match against the U.S. in Barcelona Olympic pool play.]
But, in that 88 match, Williams was the most dominant player in a national championship of all time. And, she barely said a word.
As much as I learned to hate Texas (and even more so when my team lost to them in another national championship), they really shaped how I see the sport. I do have to admit that Texas team and the matches they played against UCLA and Hawaii, showed me what it looked and felt like to play with nothing to lose. The underdogs that nobody gives a second thought to before, during or after the match. The kind of team that, after a match, leaves their opponent wondering, "Did we just lose? How the hell did that happen?"
Maybe it's not necessarily an underdog mentality. There are times when I'm watching a match -- or even a practice or an open gym or a tryout -- when I see that one player who has a certain aura about them. Most often, it's that quiet player who isn't afraid to talk or yell or push someone out of the way. It's the player who's found a way to channel all of their emotion and grit into something that looks calm. Except when you look in their eyes. It's that player who plays like they have something to prove to him/herself. It's the player that has a hard time taking a compliment because, she/he thinks, it was exactly what they were supposed to do. It's the player whose baseline is 90%, but can push it to 110% because they just couldn't do anything less.
Which brings it back to that '88 match.
There was a quiet, fiery and almost-but-not-quite angry demeanor about setter Sue Schelfout. And yet she was still very much in control of every part of that match in a way that can only be described as "you know it when you see it." I remember my dad telling me, in his wisened coach-like way, "That is what a true leader looks like. Doesn't matter the sport, that's what it feels like."
Since '88, I've only seen a handfull of setters like Shelfout in that championship match: China's Kun Feng, Hawaii's Robyn Ah Mow, UCLA's Stein Metzger, Lewis' Jose Martins, Pacific's Melanie Beckenhauer, Ohio State's Laura Davis, Long Beach's Joy McKienzie and Keri Nishimoto, Michigan State's Courtney DeBolt and Cuba's Marlenis Costa and Lilia Izquierdo. Those 12 setters are my benchmarks. None of them are flashy, except maybe Metzger and Davis, but they all have this intangible (something) that comes across just by watching them.
I've got a lot of volleyball matches, and the dorkhood that goes along with having watched all of them over and over again, because I was never really taught how to play the game. Even as early as 7th grade, the school's coaches weren't there to teach a player how to play. You were already supposed to know how. Then again, I guess Punahou is a different kind of volleyball program.
I tried out for my 7th grade with 50 other 7-9th graders. I got cut. First. No really. First. The coaches were like, "Brent. Thanks. Uhhh, good luck with something else." Then again, thinking about the people on those two intermediate teams, it's not surprising. That year, my dad took me to the state championship game between Punahou and Kamehameha. Punahou's starters were, I believe: Kevin Wong, Stein Metzger, Sean Scott, Mike Lambert and three other guys who ended up being D1 All-Americans. On the bench, were four future D1 All-Americans.
In the 8th grade I tried out again and, somehow, made it. Well, actually, the coach pulled me aside after the first practice and told me that I was 13th of 13 players on the team and that if I wanted to pursue other interests, he wouldn't hold it against me. I ended up staying with the team. And starting. Still pretty humbling.
In the second week of practices, our coach took us to watch a varsity practice which pretty much freaked my shit out. For the first twenty minutes, the balls stayed in the carts and the team did a "shadow pepper." I watched Stein Metzger and Mike Lambert the entire time. About two minutes into it, Lambert dove to his left to get a ball Metzger had "hit" to some spot. Stein went on a full-on basketball-court-length sprint over to where we were sitting and watching. He yelled "MOVE! Get the fuck out of the way!" as he came barrelling at us. He dove and slid about ten feet until he crashed into the wall we had been sitting against. Then, he got up and full-on sprinted back where Lambert had dove and was "watching" the ball go to the ceiling. Twenty minutes later, everyone was at a full-on-have-to-change-shirts-cuz-it's-too-dangerous sweat. Then the coach unbagged the balls. If I was going to play volleyball for Punahou I was gonna have to get a lot better really fast.
I watched as many televised games as I could and just copied what those players did. Every once in a while, my dad would say, "she's good" or "he's good." And, I would watch that player do whatever they did well, pause the tape, go through frame by frame, and then copy it.
I used to back my dad's car out of our driveway and take my dingy little outdoor volleyball and try to copy the way Lyman Lacro set or Teee Williams passed or Cheri Boyer served. On more than a few occasions, the police would show up. Apparently my senile old neighbor would call the cops because he was old and senile and needed something to bitch about. The police would show up and, after a few minutes, walk over and ask me how it was going. "Five more minutes, okay? But, it looks like your serve is getting better. When you start jump serving, your dad is gonna have to build a bigger garage." I would agree, thank them and head back inside.
The thing I realize now is that I wasn't just learning how to play the game. I was learning how to coach. Or, more accurately, how to act like a coach. There were coaches I loved to watch. Dave Shoji, John Dunning, Brian Gimillaro, Andy Banachowski, Mike Hebert, Don Shaw and Lisa Love. Al Scates, Carl McGowan and Marv Dunphy. And, more recently, Russ Rose, Jim Stone, Jim McLaughlin and Christy Johnson.
I remember so clearly the night my dad took me to a men's game in Klum Gym to watch Mike Wilton's first match as head coach. They lost. Bad. But, after the match, my dad walked over to Coach Wilton. I followed. Dad shook Coach Wilton's hand and asked, "How much longer?" I didn't understand. Coach Wilton smiled, looked my dad in the eye and said, "I really don't know." My dad smiled. Coach Wilton smiled. I wondered what the fuck was going on.
Back in the car, I asked dad what it all meant.
"Did you see the look in his eye?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You can tell by the look in his eyes. It's like fire. He doesn't show it because that's not what a coach is supposed to do. But, you can see it. He's into the match so much. Into what the players are doing. Into what's happening. The way they're playing. How hard they're working. And you can just tell by looking at him that he's so invested in all of it. He's going to get them all to play like winners because they'll want to follow him there."
Three years later, they were in the Final Four. Four years later, they were in the National Championship match. My dad called to tell me, "I told you so." I laughed. Then reminded him that I told him to bet that Michigan State would beat Hawaii in '95. He laughed.
My dad taught me to watch coaches during matches. You figure out a lot about their teams. There are some teams that have a hard time adjusting to situations they're not used to -- usually their coaches are up off the bench and giving advice after every play. There are some teams that always win the broken plays -- those coaches are usually the ones that sit back and watch carefully. it's not always true, and there're a lot more examples, but it kind of pans out in the end.
Every once in a while, the camera and microphone people will catch some snippet of a coach's speech during a time out. It's always been interesting to hear what they say. Some are all about effort and emotion: "Come on ladies, the game is in your hands." Some are all about systems and responsibilities: "Our transition game is slowing down too much. Let's really focus on where you're supposed to be." Some are who-the-hell-knows-where: "We really need to get that touch on the block. Come on 5'6 girl, Bibi Candelas is killing us out there." Or some, and I'm not naming names at all are...well...: "Okay, it's 28-14. But don't look at the scoreboard, let's get some momentum." No really. I heard that once. About starting laughing, I did.
So, even though I have no idea what they're actually doing or thinking, I have copied a few coaches from what I've seen of them.
I have NO FREAKING clue what or how Russ Rose or Al Scates keeps in those damn notebooks, but I have found my own stat tracking quite useful. Plus, it keeps my ass in the seat and away from telling my players things they already know and would feel annoyed or patronized if I actually said to them during a match.
I don't actually know what Russ Rose or Jim Stone or Mike Hebert is saying when they pull one, just one, player aside. But I've learned why it can be necessary. Sometimes one player is off about a certain thing and doesn't need it pointed out to the whole team. And I've learned why it's important for that player to walk away either smiling/chuckling or feeling really confident.
I wonder what was going through Chen Zhonghe's mind when he had that goofy grin on his face watching his Chinese team. I remember seeing that same smile on Bond Shymansky's face when his Georgia Tech team was playing Kim Willoughby, I mean Hawaii, in the regional finals in Honolulu. I guess there are times when players do something that seems so unlike their norm that a coach has to laugh it off. Brain fart, I guess. No harm, no foul. It happens. But the thing I've noticed is that I can only find the humor in a player's brain fart on the court when I -- as a coach -- know that the team is so well-prepared and well-practiced that one error really doesn't make a difference.
I have no idea what Russia's Nikolai Karpol or Cuba's Eugenio George or Brazil's Bernadino are saying. Or, except for George, what they're yelling. Screaming even.
I once read that Russia's Karpol told a reporter that in a gold medal Olympic final ('88, I believe, though I might be wrong) he spent an entire timeout yelling at his star, Irina Smirnova, something like: "After this match, you will be known as a failure and a national disgrace. I will personally tell your mother and grandmother that your pathetic performance was the only reason we did not bring home to the Soviet Union a gold medal and you will live with that shame for the rest of your life." And, hell if Smirnova didn't single handedly win the next three games and the gold medal. Now, I'd never do that or say that or even think that. First off, I've yet to coach a team or a player or in a situation where that may even seem possible to think. Second, as unlikely as it is to ever happen, not even an Olympic medal is worth that much. Third, I could never say that to a woman. It's not sexist, it's just completely defeatist and unnecessary. I have, however, said (not yelled) something close to that to a male player. And, I'll never do it again. Ever.
I love watching Brazil's Coach Bernadino. In the '04 Olympics, he was right up on the sideline in every match and basically threw a tantrum every time one of his players did something wrong. Again, I'd never do that. I've got too much else to worry about than getting caught up in every single contact or every individual rally. I like to think about big picture stuff: Are we competing as best as we can? What are the weaknesses in our system that nobody has thought of yet? What is our mental state? But, I guess it's my dad's voice I hear when I watch Bernadino. It's all in the eyes.
Cuba's ex-coach George gave me a totally different feeling. Similar to Karpol's without the red-faced hysterical yelling. Once, I watched on television as he sat calmly in his chair and called out, "Marleny..." raised his hands and narrowed his eyes. And then crossed his arms again. The Cuban setter, Costa had hit into the block, gotten tooled several times and trapped a couple of sets. With just a single look and a name, he showed the power of a coach's expectations. Set an achievable goal (play well) and expect the players to play at that level. There isn't really a need to go on and on about specifics or motivation. Just a reminder of the expectation that the players completely understand.
But, it wasn't until I watched Lang Ping coach the Chinese women in several Grand Prix matches before the Olympics, that I finally understood something I had read in Mike Hebert's book. During China's match against Cuba, L.P. sat in her chair and watched her team very carefully. She didn't say much, except the occasional snippet that obviously was her telling her young outside hitters what to look for when hitting against the huge Cuban block. Somewhere near Cuba's match point, a free ball came over the net and four Chinese players let it drop between them. As less-experienced players do when they make a mistake at a really bad time, they were visibly shaken. L.P. sat quietly in her chair and watched her players. They lost the next point and the match and she stood up, grabbed her folder and smiled as Coach George came over to shake her hand. "Good match," she said, smiling and shaking with both hands.
I had read something similar in Mike Hebert's book about the process of building the programs at Pittsburgh, New Mexico, Illinois and (although long after the book's writing) Minnesota. He said that sometimes a team or specific players need to learn for themselves what winning is. Especially teams and players that aren't used to winning or success. In my first few coaching gigs, I was more than fortunate to coach teams with very expereinced and successful players. The next few taught me what it's like to be on the other end. There were times in those next few years that I couldn't understand why players wouldn't do the simple things they normally do to win a tournament or a championship, instead of just being a "participant." I would scrutinize the little things I thought they weren't doing. But, when I finally got to my last coaching gig, I understood how much more important it was to sit back and watch a "failure" or deficiency than to coach it not to happen.
I think, now, that Lang Ping was watching how her players reacted to blowing an important point. Watch and listen. See what happens next in the context of the whole picture. See how individual's react to adversity. Don't be obsessed with winning at the expense of how the players and the team think and feel and do.
In a way, it's been a "fake-it-till-you-make-it-and-then-you'll-figure-out-why" kind of thing.
Or, I really really really have no life.
Yep. Dork. Full-blown, inescapable. Dork.
I have tapes. Lots and lots of tapes. As of yesterday, 188 to be exact. Not including movies. And that pilates series I ordered that night I got really drunk. Now that I know what's on a good number of them, it could be a little frightening for people that don't know me.
I swear it's not porn. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just not porn. I'm not that interesting.
Honest.
[3/10/06 Edit: The following is my full-blown volleyball nerd breakin on out.]
Tapes 1-30 are all volleyball games. All together, I think I have something to close to 200 matches. I'm a volleyball nerd. I've admitted as much for a long time. I know I've scared more than a few professional volleyball people with how much I can remember. Like the starting lineups of each team in every D-1 women's national championship match since 1988.
Then again, when I was in 3rd grade I could recite the introductions from Miss Alabama to Miss Hawaii from the Miss America Parade of States. With proper inflection and regional accent. That was the year Miss Texas won with a cheesy baby blue poofy prom dress.
I probably should have kept that one to myself.
But really now. I just found the 1988 National Championship match between Hawaii and Texas. The one where Martina Cincerova pretty much just set Teee Williams and Carolyn Taetafa. Anna Vorweck (Fer-verk), Karrie Trieschman and Mary Robins were pretty much just observers.
In that match, Teee Williams showed that very few other American women had what it took to go from the American college game to the international game. I believe she had something like 25 kills in the 3 game loss, .400 hitting percentage and most of the team's digs and blocks. In '88 that was absolutely unheard of, especially in a national championship game. Nobody else was hitting the ball so high over the block and so hard that the opposing defense didn't even make a move for the ball. Since then, only 4 other players have come close to, but not equaled, that performance: Kerri Walsh ('96), Lauren Cacciamani ('98), Logan Tom ('01) and Ogonna Nnamani ('04). Others had spurts of greatness: Tara Cross ('89), Natalie Williams ('91), Danielle Scott ('91, '92, '93), Kristin Folkl ('94), Terri Zemaitis ('97), Cacciamani ('99), Sherisa Livingston ('00), Tayyiba Haneef ('01) and Keao Burdine ('02, '03).
[Of course, none of those compare to watching the Unified Team's Irina Smirnova getting 56 kills in 130 attempts in ONE match or 16 year old Eugenia Artamanova's 14 kills, hitting almost .900 while only playing 3 rotations per game in the same match against the U.S. in Barcelona Olympic pool play.]
But, in that 88 match, Williams was the most dominant player in a national championship of all time. And, she barely said a word.
As much as I learned to hate Texas (and even more so when my team lost to them in another national championship), they really shaped how I see the sport. I do have to admit that Texas team and the matches they played against UCLA and Hawaii, showed me what it looked and felt like to play with nothing to lose. The underdogs that nobody gives a second thought to before, during or after the match. The kind of team that, after a match, leaves their opponent wondering, "Did we just lose? How the hell did that happen?"
Maybe it's not necessarily an underdog mentality. There are times when I'm watching a match -- or even a practice or an open gym or a tryout -- when I see that one player who has a certain aura about them. Most often, it's that quiet player who isn't afraid to talk or yell or push someone out of the way. It's the player who's found a way to channel all of their emotion and grit into something that looks calm. Except when you look in their eyes. It's that player who plays like they have something to prove to him/herself. It's the player that has a hard time taking a compliment because, she/he thinks, it was exactly what they were supposed to do. It's the player whose baseline is 90%, but can push it to 110% because they just couldn't do anything less.
Which brings it back to that '88 match.
There was a quiet, fiery and almost-but-not-quite angry demeanor about setter Sue Schelfout. And yet she was still very much in control of every part of that match in a way that can only be described as "you know it when you see it." I remember my dad telling me, in his wisened coach-like way, "That is what a true leader looks like. Doesn't matter the sport, that's what it feels like."
Since '88, I've only seen a handfull of setters like Shelfout in that championship match: China's Kun Feng, Hawaii's Robyn Ah Mow, UCLA's Stein Metzger, Lewis' Jose Martins, Pacific's Melanie Beckenhauer, Ohio State's Laura Davis, Long Beach's Joy McKienzie and Keri Nishimoto, Michigan State's Courtney DeBolt and Cuba's Marlenis Costa and Lilia Izquierdo. Those 12 setters are my benchmarks. None of them are flashy, except maybe Metzger and Davis, but they all have this intangible (something) that comes across just by watching them.
I've got a lot of volleyball matches, and the dorkhood that goes along with having watched all of them over and over again, because I was never really taught how to play the game. Even as early as 7th grade, the school's coaches weren't there to teach a player how to play. You were already supposed to know how. Then again, I guess Punahou is a different kind of volleyball program.
I tried out for my 7th grade with 50 other 7-9th graders. I got cut. First. No really. First. The coaches were like, "Brent. Thanks. Uhhh, good luck with something else." Then again, thinking about the people on those two intermediate teams, it's not surprising. That year, my dad took me to the state championship game between Punahou and Kamehameha. Punahou's starters were, I believe: Kevin Wong, Stein Metzger, Sean Scott, Mike Lambert and three other guys who ended up being D1 All-Americans. On the bench, were four future D1 All-Americans.
In the 8th grade I tried out again and, somehow, made it. Well, actually, the coach pulled me aside after the first practice and told me that I was 13th of 13 players on the team and that if I wanted to pursue other interests, he wouldn't hold it against me. I ended up staying with the team. And starting. Still pretty humbling.
In the second week of practices, our coach took us to watch a varsity practice which pretty much freaked my shit out. For the first twenty minutes, the balls stayed in the carts and the team did a "shadow pepper." I watched Stein Metzger and Mike Lambert the entire time. About two minutes into it, Lambert dove to his left to get a ball Metzger had "hit" to some spot. Stein went on a full-on basketball-court-length sprint over to where we were sitting and watching. He yelled "MOVE! Get the fuck out of the way!" as he came barrelling at us. He dove and slid about ten feet until he crashed into the wall we had been sitting against. Then, he got up and full-on sprinted back where Lambert had dove and was "watching" the ball go to the ceiling. Twenty minutes later, everyone was at a full-on-have-to-change-shirts-cuz-it's-too-dangerous sweat. Then the coach unbagged the balls. If I was going to play volleyball for Punahou I was gonna have to get a lot better really fast.
I watched as many televised games as I could and just copied what those players did. Every once in a while, my dad would say, "she's good" or "he's good." And, I would watch that player do whatever they did well, pause the tape, go through frame by frame, and then copy it.
I used to back my dad's car out of our driveway and take my dingy little outdoor volleyball and try to copy the way Lyman Lacro set or Teee Williams passed or Cheri Boyer served. On more than a few occasions, the police would show up. Apparently my senile old neighbor would call the cops because he was old and senile and needed something to bitch about. The police would show up and, after a few minutes, walk over and ask me how it was going. "Five more minutes, okay? But, it looks like your serve is getting better. When you start jump serving, your dad is gonna have to build a bigger garage." I would agree, thank them and head back inside.
The thing I realize now is that I wasn't just learning how to play the game. I was learning how to coach. Or, more accurately, how to act like a coach. There were coaches I loved to watch. Dave Shoji, John Dunning, Brian Gimillaro, Andy Banachowski, Mike Hebert, Don Shaw and Lisa Love. Al Scates, Carl McGowan and Marv Dunphy. And, more recently, Russ Rose, Jim Stone, Jim McLaughlin and Christy Johnson.
I remember so clearly the night my dad took me to a men's game in Klum Gym to watch Mike Wilton's first match as head coach. They lost. Bad. But, after the match, my dad walked over to Coach Wilton. I followed. Dad shook Coach Wilton's hand and asked, "How much longer?" I didn't understand. Coach Wilton smiled, looked my dad in the eye and said, "I really don't know." My dad smiled. Coach Wilton smiled. I wondered what the fuck was going on.
Back in the car, I asked dad what it all meant.
"Did you see the look in his eye?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You can tell by the look in his eyes. It's like fire. He doesn't show it because that's not what a coach is supposed to do. But, you can see it. He's into the match so much. Into what the players are doing. Into what's happening. The way they're playing. How hard they're working. And you can just tell by looking at him that he's so invested in all of it. He's going to get them all to play like winners because they'll want to follow him there."
Three years later, they were in the Final Four. Four years later, they were in the National Championship match. My dad called to tell me, "I told you so." I laughed. Then reminded him that I told him to bet that Michigan State would beat Hawaii in '95. He laughed.
My dad taught me to watch coaches during matches. You figure out a lot about their teams. There are some teams that have a hard time adjusting to situations they're not used to -- usually their coaches are up off the bench and giving advice after every play. There are some teams that always win the broken plays -- those coaches are usually the ones that sit back and watch carefully. it's not always true, and there're a lot more examples, but it kind of pans out in the end.
Every once in a while, the camera and microphone people will catch some snippet of a coach's speech during a time out. It's always been interesting to hear what they say. Some are all about effort and emotion: "Come on ladies, the game is in your hands." Some are all about systems and responsibilities: "Our transition game is slowing down too much. Let's really focus on where you're supposed to be." Some are who-the-hell-knows-where: "We really need to get that touch on the block. Come on 5'6 girl, Bibi Candelas is killing us out there." Or some, and I'm not naming names at all are...well...: "Okay, it's 28-14. But don't look at the scoreboard, let's get some momentum." No really. I heard that once. About starting laughing, I did.
So, even though I have no idea what they're actually doing or thinking, I have copied a few coaches from what I've seen of them.
I have NO FREAKING clue what or how Russ Rose or Al Scates keeps in those damn notebooks, but I have found my own stat tracking quite useful. Plus, it keeps my ass in the seat and away from telling my players things they already know and would feel annoyed or patronized if I actually said to them during a match.
I don't actually know what Russ Rose or Jim Stone or Mike Hebert is saying when they pull one, just one, player aside. But I've learned why it can be necessary. Sometimes one player is off about a certain thing and doesn't need it pointed out to the whole team. And I've learned why it's important for that player to walk away either smiling/chuckling or feeling really confident.
I wonder what was going through Chen Zhonghe's mind when he had that goofy grin on his face watching his Chinese team. I remember seeing that same smile on Bond Shymansky's face when his Georgia Tech team was playing Kim Willoughby, I mean Hawaii, in the regional finals in Honolulu. I guess there are times when players do something that seems so unlike their norm that a coach has to laugh it off. Brain fart, I guess. No harm, no foul. It happens. But the thing I've noticed is that I can only find the humor in a player's brain fart on the court when I -- as a coach -- know that the team is so well-prepared and well-practiced that one error really doesn't make a difference.
I have no idea what Russia's Nikolai Karpol or Cuba's Eugenio George or Brazil's Bernadino are saying. Or, except for George, what they're yelling. Screaming even.
I once read that Russia's Karpol told a reporter that in a gold medal Olympic final ('88, I believe, though I might be wrong) he spent an entire timeout yelling at his star, Irina Smirnova, something like: "After this match, you will be known as a failure and a national disgrace. I will personally tell your mother and grandmother that your pathetic performance was the only reason we did not bring home to the Soviet Union a gold medal and you will live with that shame for the rest of your life." And, hell if Smirnova didn't single handedly win the next three games and the gold medal. Now, I'd never do that or say that or even think that. First off, I've yet to coach a team or a player or in a situation where that may even seem possible to think. Second, as unlikely as it is to ever happen, not even an Olympic medal is worth that much. Third, I could never say that to a woman. It's not sexist, it's just completely defeatist and unnecessary. I have, however, said (not yelled) something close to that to a male player. And, I'll never do it again. Ever.
I love watching Brazil's Coach Bernadino. In the '04 Olympics, he was right up on the sideline in every match and basically threw a tantrum every time one of his players did something wrong. Again, I'd never do that. I've got too much else to worry about than getting caught up in every single contact or every individual rally. I like to think about big picture stuff: Are we competing as best as we can? What are the weaknesses in our system that nobody has thought of yet? What is our mental state? But, I guess it's my dad's voice I hear when I watch Bernadino. It's all in the eyes.
Cuba's ex-coach George gave me a totally different feeling. Similar to Karpol's without the red-faced hysterical yelling. Once, I watched on television as he sat calmly in his chair and called out, "Marleny..." raised his hands and narrowed his eyes. And then crossed his arms again. The Cuban setter, Costa had hit into the block, gotten tooled several times and trapped a couple of sets. With just a single look and a name, he showed the power of a coach's expectations. Set an achievable goal (play well) and expect the players to play at that level. There isn't really a need to go on and on about specifics or motivation. Just a reminder of the expectation that the players completely understand.
But, it wasn't until I watched Lang Ping coach the Chinese women in several Grand Prix matches before the Olympics, that I finally understood something I had read in Mike Hebert's book. During China's match against Cuba, L.P. sat in her chair and watched her team very carefully. She didn't say much, except the occasional snippet that obviously was her telling her young outside hitters what to look for when hitting against the huge Cuban block. Somewhere near Cuba's match point, a free ball came over the net and four Chinese players let it drop between them. As less-experienced players do when they make a mistake at a really bad time, they were visibly shaken. L.P. sat quietly in her chair and watched her players. They lost the next point and the match and she stood up, grabbed her folder and smiled as Coach George came over to shake her hand. "Good match," she said, smiling and shaking with both hands.
I had read something similar in Mike Hebert's book about the process of building the programs at Pittsburgh, New Mexico, Illinois and (although long after the book's writing) Minnesota. He said that sometimes a team or specific players need to learn for themselves what winning is. Especially teams and players that aren't used to winning or success. In my first few coaching gigs, I was more than fortunate to coach teams with very expereinced and successful players. The next few taught me what it's like to be on the other end. There were times in those next few years that I couldn't understand why players wouldn't do the simple things they normally do to win a tournament or a championship, instead of just being a "participant." I would scrutinize the little things I thought they weren't doing. But, when I finally got to my last coaching gig, I understood how much more important it was to sit back and watch a "failure" or deficiency than to coach it not to happen.
I think, now, that Lang Ping was watching how her players reacted to blowing an important point. Watch and listen. See what happens next in the context of the whole picture. See how individual's react to adversity. Don't be obsessed with winning at the expense of how the players and the team think and feel and do.
In a way, it's been a "fake-it-till-you-make-it-and-then-you'll-figure-out-why" kind of thing.
Or, I really really really have no life.
Yep. Dork. Full-blown, inescapable. Dork.
Monday, March 06, 2006
...she leaned over, spilled her manhattan in my eye and said, "oh, i give up."
Causes of Gayness #148
When I was 11 or so, my family went on a vacation to somewhere. In preparation for going on holiday, my mom thought it would be a good idea to take me to the barber, who happened to be my aunt.
"Let's cut your hair so you won't have to worry about it."
I sat in the chair as my mom and my aunt talked out of earshot. I closed my eyes and they went to work.
I opened my eyes to find....
A perm.
They gave me a perm.
I should have worried when I felt the curlers. Or the chemicals. Or went under the hair dryer.
No really, mom thought it would be a good idea to give her male 11 year old only child a perm.
And...scene.
When I was 11 or so, my family went on a vacation to somewhere. In preparation for going on holiday, my mom thought it would be a good idea to take me to the barber, who happened to be my aunt.
"Let's cut your hair so you won't have to worry about it."
I sat in the chair as my mom and my aunt talked out of earshot. I closed my eyes and they went to work.
I opened my eyes to find....
A perm.
They gave me a perm.
I should have worried when I felt the curlers. Or the chemicals. Or went under the hair dryer.
No really, mom thought it would be a good idea to give her male 11 year old only child a perm.
And...scene.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Coincidentally Interesting
In the interest of disproving a few people's theory that I do indeed have multiple personality disorder, I decided on a little change. Or at least trying it on for size. Which I like. Even though it doesn't really matter. But it kind of does. We'll see. All of us. My preciousssssss.
Henceforth, forthwith and a little dippety do, I've started an "addendum blog" to this one called "Coincidentally Interesting."
One of the reasons I started to blog was that I recognized that laughter was a little lacking in my life. I took the good, the bad and the ugly way too seriously to actually enjoy all the great things that have been and are happening. I was getting hung up and aggravated at the little things that really shouldn't matter. And it was taking up more of my psychic energy than it should have. So I started blogging as a way to take a step back and laugh at what needed to be laughed at and learn from what needed to be learned from.
My goal in What Hurts was, and still is, an outlet for the child in me.
The one who, in Art Education for Elementary Teachers, built a clay koala holding onto a tree/pencil holder in the shape of a bong and declared to his older, stuffy professor that it was an homage to Ginsberg in Australia.
The one who declared, for his final assignment in Music for Elementary Teachers, that he required a high-powered fan, a smoke machine and a reenactment of the drowning scene in Titanic "to create the mood," before he would play "My Heart Will Go On" on his recorder.
The one who, at his team's pleadings, gave 110% lip synching to "Barbie Girl" at a volleyball camp talent show, thereby ensuring that it would be the last time said volleyball camp had a talent show.
The one who tried to transform ruralish Michigan's O'Malley's Irish Pub into Ye Old Gay Irish Pub Next To Big Dick's simply by word of mouth.
The one who tried to lead an a capella sing-a-long to "Ass and Titties" at a gay bar's karaoke night.
I'm a big fan of the child in me. And blogging was a way to acknowledge his contributions to humanity. I wanted this blog to be all about the funny.
But, I've also been seriously itching to write again. There have been a number of posts in the last month or so that have taken on a serious and more academic tone. There've also been nearly a dozen unpublished posts that read more like a thesis than a blog entry.
So the addendum to What Hurts, "Coincidentally Interesting," will allow my inner dork to blab all he wants. If it's interesting to anyone but me, I'll be shocked out of my gourd. And probably want to start dating you immediately.
Henceforth, forthwith and a little dippety do, I've started an "addendum blog" to this one called "Coincidentally Interesting."
One of the reasons I started to blog was that I recognized that laughter was a little lacking in my life. I took the good, the bad and the ugly way too seriously to actually enjoy all the great things that have been and are happening. I was getting hung up and aggravated at the little things that really shouldn't matter. And it was taking up more of my psychic energy than it should have. So I started blogging as a way to take a step back and laugh at what needed to be laughed at and learn from what needed to be learned from.
My goal in What Hurts was, and still is, an outlet for the child in me.
The one who, in Art Education for Elementary Teachers, built a clay koala holding onto a tree/pencil holder in the shape of a bong and declared to his older, stuffy professor that it was an homage to Ginsberg in Australia.
The one who declared, for his final assignment in Music for Elementary Teachers, that he required a high-powered fan, a smoke machine and a reenactment of the drowning scene in Titanic "to create the mood," before he would play "My Heart Will Go On" on his recorder.
The one who, at his team's pleadings, gave 110% lip synching to "Barbie Girl" at a volleyball camp talent show, thereby ensuring that it would be the last time said volleyball camp had a talent show.
The one who tried to transform ruralish Michigan's O'Malley's Irish Pub into Ye Old Gay Irish Pub Next To Big Dick's simply by word of mouth.
The one who tried to lead an a capella sing-a-long to "Ass and Titties" at a gay bar's karaoke night.
I'm a big fan of the child in me. And blogging was a way to acknowledge his contributions to humanity. I wanted this blog to be all about the funny.
But, I've also been seriously itching to write again. There have been a number of posts in the last month or so that have taken on a serious and more academic tone. There've also been nearly a dozen unpublished posts that read more like a thesis than a blog entry.
So the addendum to What Hurts, "Coincidentally Interesting," will allow my inner dork to blab all he wants. If it's interesting to anyone but me, I'll be shocked out of my gourd. And probably want to start dating you immediately.
Everything I need to know I learned in...Illinois, Wisconsin and Hawaii. What? Exactly.
So, I came across this link again.
"You Know You're From (insert state) When..."
Either I know a lot, or I need to just pick ONE damn place to live.
You Know You're From HAWAII When...
- You go to dinner and "make one plate" with all the extra food leftover.
- You automatically take off your shoes in people's homes.
- It's "shave ice" not"snow cones".
- When someone says to "dress up" it means one nice aloha shirt and jeans.
- You went to the War Memorial Stadium parking lot to learn how to drive.
- It's SHOYU, not soy sauce.
- To you, sushi means sushi, not RAW FISH!
- You have a billion pairs of slippers in front your door when your family gets together
- You buy large quantities of toilet paper in case there's a longshoreman strike.
- You don't understand why anyone would buy less than a 20 lb bag of rice...
- You can taste the difference between teriyaki and kal-bi
- You know what the "stink eye" is; and how to give it.
- You can correctly pronouce kalanianaole, kalakaua and aiea (and likelike?)
- You give directions using mauka and makai.
- You think 70 degrees is freezing cold
- Rainbow Drive-Inn is a special date.
- When you hear the words "fund raiser", you know it means Zippy's Chili
- You have said "wat, owe you money?", "karang your alas", or "dakine"
- You never understood why adding pineapple and ham to a pizza made it Hawaiian to the rest of the world
- You measure the water for the rice by the knuckle of your index finger
- You go to Maui and your luggage home includes potato chips, manju, cream puffs, guri-guri and fresh saimin from Sam Sato's
- You call everyone older than you "Aunty" or "Uncle" even though they aren't related to you
- You are barefoot in most of you elementary school pictures (and high school...hello?!?).
- You feel guilt leaving a get-together without helping clean up.
- The only time you honk your horn is once a year during the safety check.
- Nobody is sure exactly where "north" is.
You Know You're From ILLINOIS/CHICAGO When...
- You know if someone is from southern, middle or northern Illinois as soon as they open their mouth.
- When you say "the city" - you mean Chicago.
- All the festivals across the state are named after a fruit, vegetable, grain, or animal.
- You know what "cow tipping" and "snipe hunting" is.
- "Vacation" means going to Six Flags.
- Whenever anyone mentions going out for steak, the first place you think of is Ponderosa.
- You have no problem spelling or pronouncing "Des Plaines"
- You think Chicago is a completely different state from Illinois.
- People from other states love to hear you say "Illinois" and other words with "Os" in them.
- You drink "pop."
- You know what Kennedy, Dan Ryan, Eisenhower, Edens, and Bishop Ford, have in common and curse one of them daily.
- You can name three or four extra taxes nobody else pays.
- You can use two or three Daleyisms in context.
- You say Chicawgo and not Chicaago.
- You expect corruption in local politics.
- You've been caught speeding in Wisconsin because you had Illinois plates. (ummm...can I hear a "You've been caught speeding in Illinois with Wisconsin plates"?)
- You guard your shoveled parking space with an old chair and unusable broom.
- You know exactly how many cars are "legally" allowed to turn left after the light turns red.
- You can recite many of "The Blues Brothers" lines and know where they filmed certain scenes.
- You don't pronounce the "s" at the end of Illinois. You become irate at people who do
- You measure distance in minutes (especially "from the city"). And you swear everything is pretty much 15 minutes away
- You refer to Lake Michigan as "The Lake"
- You understand what "lake-effect" means
- You know the difference between Amtrak and Metra, and know which station they end up at. You have ridden the "L"
- You can distinguish between the following area codes: 847,630,773,708, 312, & 815
- You respond to the question "Where are you from" with a side" example:"WEST SIDE", "SOUTH SIDE" or "NORTHSIDE."
- You live two miles from work and it takes you two hours to drive there
- It's January and you see someone's kitchen chair in the street, and you know that if you're a responsible citizen and bring it back to the sidewalk you will be shot on sight
- You don't flinch when you pay the fifth toll of your 45-minute car ride on the highway
- You've paid $105 for towing, $30 for more than one "street cleaning" ticket, $58 for a city vehicle sticker, and $70 for a license plate sticker -- and chalk it all up to "neighborhood taxes."
- You've taken the Red Line past the point where all white people get off and all black people get on -- or vice versa.
You Know You're From Wisconsin/Milwaukee When...
- You can taste a difference in cheese made somewhere else
- You can find and pronounce : Eau Claire, Oconomowoc, Menomonee Falls, Waukesha, and La Crosse, Fond du Lac.
- When the weather hits 0 degrees you decide that maybe it's time to get out a jacket instead of a sweatshirt.
- You know how to make a very good sled out of normal household items.
- You have watched Fargo and not noticed an accent.
- You drive around with the air conditioning on until it hits 30 degrees, because it just was so darn hot outside.
- You live in a house that has no front steps, yet the door is one yard above the ground.
- You think everyone from south of Madison has an accent.
- You can identify a Michigan accent.
- Down South to you means Chicago.
- You can recognize someone from Illinois from their driving.
- You buy cat litter every winter, but you don't own a cat.
- Bucky the Badger hangs on your Christmas tree even if you didn't go to University of Wisconsinm Madison.
- You can use the word "ya der hey" easily in a sentence
- There was at least one kid in your class who had to help milk cows in the morning
- You have ever seen or played in a "broom ball" game.
- You know people who have tied dead animals to the hoods of their cars.
- You think "The Safe House" is better than Disneyworld.
- You won't let a car from out of state go faster than you.
- No matter where you go you see the Jesus Car - and can't understand what's coming out the speakers
- To you, Martin Luther King Drive is still 3rd St. and Cesar Chavez Drive is still 16th St
I guess that's a lot to know. All of the above have made life quite confusing at times.
There have been times that I know which accent I'm supposed to be using, but have no idea which accent will come out. Am I in central Illinois? Chicago northside? southside? west side? Wisconsin? northern Wisconsin? western Wisconsin? Michigan?
"I guess it's all aboot the pop you drink at the baarr, hey?"
Sheesh.
"You Know You're From (insert state) When..."
Either I know a lot, or I need to just pick ONE damn place to live.
You Know You're From HAWAII When...
- You go to dinner and "make one plate" with all the extra food leftover.
- You automatically take off your shoes in people's homes.
- It's "shave ice" not"snow cones".
- When someone says to "dress up" it means one nice aloha shirt and jeans.
- You went to the War Memorial Stadium parking lot to learn how to drive.
- It's SHOYU, not soy sauce.
- To you, sushi means sushi, not RAW FISH!
- You have a billion pairs of slippers in front your door when your family gets together
- You buy large quantities of toilet paper in case there's a longshoreman strike.
- You don't understand why anyone would buy less than a 20 lb bag of rice...
- You can taste the difference between teriyaki and kal-bi
- You know what the "stink eye" is; and how to give it.
- You can correctly pronouce kalanianaole, kalakaua and aiea (and likelike?)
- You give directions using mauka and makai.
- You think 70 degrees is freezing cold
- Rainbow Drive-Inn is a special date.
- When you hear the words "fund raiser", you know it means Zippy's Chili
- You have said "wat, owe you money?", "karang your alas", or "dakine"
- You never understood why adding pineapple and ham to a pizza made it Hawaiian to the rest of the world
- You measure the water for the rice by the knuckle of your index finger
- You go to Maui and your luggage home includes potato chips, manju, cream puffs, guri-guri and fresh saimin from Sam Sato's
- You call everyone older than you "Aunty" or "Uncle" even though they aren't related to you
- You are barefoot in most of you elementary school pictures (and high school...hello?!?).
- You feel guilt leaving a get-together without helping clean up.
- The only time you honk your horn is once a year during the safety check.
- Nobody is sure exactly where "north" is.
You Know You're From ILLINOIS/CHICAGO When...
- You know if someone is from southern, middle or northern Illinois as soon as they open their mouth.
- When you say "the city" - you mean Chicago.
- All the festivals across the state are named after a fruit, vegetable, grain, or animal.
- You know what "cow tipping" and "snipe hunting" is.
- "Vacation" means going to Six Flags.
- Whenever anyone mentions going out for steak, the first place you think of is Ponderosa.
- You have no problem spelling or pronouncing "Des Plaines"
- You think Chicago is a completely different state from Illinois.
- People from other states love to hear you say "Illinois" and other words with "Os" in them.
- You drink "pop."
- You know what Kennedy, Dan Ryan, Eisenhower, Edens, and Bishop Ford, have in common and curse one of them daily.
- You can name three or four extra taxes nobody else pays.
- You can use two or three Daleyisms in context.
- You say Chicawgo and not Chicaago.
- You expect corruption in local politics.
- You've been caught speeding in Wisconsin because you had Illinois plates. (ummm...can I hear a "You've been caught speeding in Illinois with Wisconsin plates"?)
- You guard your shoveled parking space with an old chair and unusable broom.
- You know exactly how many cars are "legally" allowed to turn left after the light turns red.
- You can recite many of "The Blues Brothers" lines and know where they filmed certain scenes.
- You don't pronounce the "s" at the end of Illinois. You become irate at people who do
- You measure distance in minutes (especially "from the city"). And you swear everything is pretty much 15 minutes away
- You refer to Lake Michigan as "The Lake"
- You understand what "lake-effect" means
- You know the difference between Amtrak and Metra, and know which station they end up at. You have ridden the "L"
- You can distinguish between the following area codes: 847,630,773,708, 312, & 815
- You respond to the question "Where are you from" with a side" example:"WEST SIDE", "SOUTH SIDE" or "NORTHSIDE."
- You live two miles from work and it takes you two hours to drive there
- It's January and you see someone's kitchen chair in the street, and you know that if you're a responsible citizen and bring it back to the sidewalk you will be shot on sight
- You don't flinch when you pay the fifth toll of your 45-minute car ride on the highway
- You've paid $105 for towing, $30 for more than one "street cleaning" ticket, $58 for a city vehicle sticker, and $70 for a license plate sticker -- and chalk it all up to "neighborhood taxes."
- You've taken the Red Line past the point where all white people get off and all black people get on -- or vice versa.
You Know You're From Wisconsin/Milwaukee When...
- You can taste a difference in cheese made somewhere else
- You can find and pronounce : Eau Claire, Oconomowoc, Menomonee Falls, Waukesha, and La Crosse, Fond du Lac.
- When the weather hits 0 degrees you decide that maybe it's time to get out a jacket instead of a sweatshirt.
- You know how to make a very good sled out of normal household items.
- You have watched Fargo and not noticed an accent.
- You drive around with the air conditioning on until it hits 30 degrees, because it just was so darn hot outside.
- You live in a house that has no front steps, yet the door is one yard above the ground.
- You think everyone from south of Madison has an accent.
- You can identify a Michigan accent.
- Down South to you means Chicago.
- You can recognize someone from Illinois from their driving.
- You buy cat litter every winter, but you don't own a cat.
- Bucky the Badger hangs on your Christmas tree even if you didn't go to University of Wisconsinm Madison.
- You can use the word "ya der hey" easily in a sentence
- There was at least one kid in your class who had to help milk cows in the morning
- You have ever seen or played in a "broom ball" game.
- You know people who have tied dead animals to the hoods of their cars.
- You think "The Safe House" is better than Disneyworld.
- You won't let a car from out of state go faster than you.
- No matter where you go you see the Jesus Car - and can't understand what's coming out the speakers
- To you, Martin Luther King Drive is still 3rd St. and Cesar Chavez Drive is still 16th St
I guess that's a lot to know. All of the above have made life quite confusing at times.
There have been times that I know which accent I'm supposed to be using, but have no idea which accent will come out. Am I in central Illinois? Chicago northside? southside? west side? Wisconsin? northern Wisconsin? western Wisconsin? Michigan?
"I guess it's all aboot the pop you drink at the baarr, hey?"
Sheesh.
Some say moment...some say security issue.
Apparently I'm a 16 year old girl.
Let's all take a moment to channel a little Johnny Weir:
...and there's nothing wrong with that.
...and there's nothing wrong with that.
...vodka shot, snort of...wait.
...and there's nothing wrong with that.
Work pretty much blew chunks when I was hit with 16 people who seemed to have been misled into believing they were at Chuck E Cheese or Denny's. You know, the Denny's just past the trailer park on the left. No, not that one. The one after the third 4x4 up on blocks after you take the right past the kiddy pool with the duct taped Xs all over. Yeah, the off brown one. That Dennys..
I was in a pretty foul mood. Then I found that a table had written on their credit card slip: "Tip: Don't run with scissors." By the way assholes, The Shitty Tipper Database is a bitch.
I walked into the kitchen. I may or may not have been looking for some kind of sharp implement.
Only to find...
Wait for it...
Wait for it...
A Certain Reality TV Star.
No, not Screech again. Hollywood Squares doesn't count.
Let's all take a moment to channel a little Johnny Weir:
...and there's nothing wrong with that.
...and there's nothing wrong with that.
...vodka shot, snort of...wait.
...and there's nothing wrong with that.
Work pretty much blew chunks when I was hit with 16 people who seemed to have been misled into believing they were at Chuck E Cheese or Denny's. You know, the Denny's just past the trailer park on the left. No, not that one. The one after the third 4x4 up on blocks after you take the right past the kiddy pool with the duct taped Xs all over. Yeah, the off brown one. That Dennys..
I was in a pretty foul mood. Then I found that a table had written on their credit card slip: "Tip: Don't run with scissors." By the way assholes, The Shitty Tipper Database is a bitch.
I walked into the kitchen. I may or may not have been looking for some kind of sharp implement.
Only to find...
Wait for it...
Wait for it...
A Certain Reality TV Star.
No, not Screech again. Hollywood Squares doesn't count.
I use the label, "star," very loosely. Every season after New Orleans was pretty much bad straight porn meets Jackass.
Okay, Chicago wasn't all that bad. But only because I was living in the Windy City at the time and everyone was all about RW sightings. If I remember correctly, I witnessed Chris and Aneesa's little jaunt to Circuit. Or at least the camera crew trying not to catch gay. Of course, they were walking in as I was coming home from work. Ten p.m. at Circuit will just find you side by side with all the closet underage suburban homos and guys with mesenger bags who whisper "rock," or "puff," or "skittles" under their breath.
But, I digress.
At seeing said reality tv guy, who apprently got in a fight with a police horse in Madison, I will admit to having turned into a 16 year old girl. To my credit, I kept it on the inside for the first twenty minutes or so. After that, I let it out like I was chasing the N Sync bus at my sixth concert.
Ha! As if.
The only words that escaped my lips as I attempted to fan myself with any object I could grasp, were: "Ooooh mmmmyyyy ggggoooodddd, he's soooooo hot!!!" and "Um, can't you see I'm having issues right now?" and "I. Just. Can't. Deal."
I then spent the next hour or so trying to convince the rest of the staff that he, indeed, was God's gift to everyone too broke to buy porn.
Realizing that my tables were trying to figure out if 45 minutes was too long to wait for a house salad, I walked into the kitchen and tried to pretend like he was any old schmo.
I failed.
Badly.
Shortly thereafter, I was leaning against the staff-service-only-bar-railing, fanning myself with a paper napkin and dabbing my face with a wet towel. I started to laugh until I couldn't breathe. Tears flowed. I tried to blow my nose. And gave thanks that we have to wear aprons.
Then my manager, who had been talking to said reality tv guy, came into the bar area and started hysterically laughing at me.
"Come on. I'll take your picture with him."
I channelled my inner 13 year old Japanese girl at her first Backstreet Boys concert . Then I ran away.
Then called a few dozen people. Each time, I may have said:
"Oh. My. God. You will not believe who is here eating. I'm having issues."
"What? Do you not understand how awesome this is? What's wrong with you? I'll talk to you later when you've come to your senses."
To all those people I called, I'm sorry.
I'm so embararssed right now.
Soooooo embarassed.
I so deserve every ounce of ridicule I get because of tonight.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)