Why, children? Why do you hate us so? What ever have we done to you except keep you warm and dry and protected from the elements?
Daddy Coaches
The title of this post seemed a lot more clever when my blog was titled “Daddy Scratches.” Just thought you should know. -JZ
Hey, everybody! So, yesterday was the first tee-ball game of the season, and I gotta tell ya—
[Ring-ring … ring-ring … ring-ring]
Oh, excuse me for a moment; I have to take this call.
Hello? This is him. Who? Theo? Seriously? You what? Really? Well, um, yes, I’d love to! Thanks so much! OK, great! See you at Fenway next week!
Wow! That was Theo Epstein, General Manager of the Boston Red Sox. He wants me in the dugout for the team’s next home series. Seems the word is out about what a stellar coaching job I did with Game 1.
Hey, a man can dream.
That big circle I just leapt out of? Yeah, that was my comfort zone
There was a moment during my first few horrific days of Army basic training when it occurred to me that I, shithead extraordinaire, was the one who volunteered to be there, and that, therefore, the misery I was experiencing was, in the words of the great Robert Plant, “na-na-na-na-na-na-na-noooooobody’s fault but mine.”
I experienced a similar epiphany yesterday when I found myself standing in the middle of a baseball diamond coaching 11 youngsters during their first tee-ball practice.
Wall of shame
Oh, Scott. Things were going so well. So well indeed. Alas …
You see, Scott, I am a major control freawok … but, unfortunately, I am neither qualified nor equipped to install Verizon FiOS. Thus, I begrudgingly had to relinquish control and allow you to have free rein around the inside and outside of my house today.
Don’t take it personally, Scott; I get twitchy and anxious when anyone is doing any work on my home of any kind. I always worry that the person performing the work is going to accidentally fuck something up and leave me with a new problem that didn’t exist until they dicked around with whatever it was with which they had to dick around.
U2? Me too!
The odds of me getting that ticket were so infinitesimal, I almost didn’t try. Seriously.
Look, I’ve been in this game a long time now, and I’ve gotten hooked up for some pretty exclusive gigs, but U2 in a tiny Boston-area theater, playing for less than 1,000 people, most of whom were contest winners from around the country? I know rejection when I see it, and this was rejection on steroids with a tire-iron in its hand, just looking for an optimist it could clobber the hell out of.
But I had to give it a try, right?
Berated by Bono
Um, well, actually, Mr. Bono, now that you mention it …
(Sorry, kids. You’ll get the story, but not tonight. Aiming for tomorrow.)
(Also, FYI: This kind of unfortunate incident can be avoided in the future if one of you would like to make an enormous donation to the “Help Jon Zal Quit His Day Job” fund. I’m just sayin’ …)
Another mouth to feed
I can’t believe I forgot to introduce you all to the newest member of the family! Where are my manners?
This little bundle of joy is Baby Alive Tink & Poops. No, that’s not her real name, but that is what Jayna has been calling her since, like, a year ago when she first saw the commercial. As you can probably surmise, the “Tink & Poops” part means she not only urinates—which is just so yesteryear—but she also defecates. And if there is one thing we need around here, it is a fake baby who shits herself, amirite?
A new beginning
I bought this shirt about a year ago, not long after President Obama (President Obama! Sweet Jumping Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick, I love saying that!) won the Iowa Caucus. At the time, I still thought he was a bit of a long shot, but, after having started off the campaign season convinced that Hillary was my candidate, I suddenly found myself swept up in the excitement of Barack Obama’s candidacy. The man moved me — and still does. And, thankfully, he also moved a majority of the voting public last November.