The Future of...

For now, I'm not sure what the future of TNB will be. It's been months since I last posted and even longer since I last collected. So, for now, I think it's fair to say that TNB is no more. I will keep this blog alive for posterity's sake and for the off chance that I decide to revisit this venture in the future.

Thanks to everyone that has made TNB such an enjoyable memory for me. I've made some great friends, and a few that I'll consider lifelong. With my current focus on being a fulltime husband and father, restaurant manager, and college student there is little to no time left for hobbies. Even my Tuesday Night Softball has become difficult to fit in.

Once again thanks to everyone along the way! I hope to be back in some form or fashion in the future!

Sincerely,

jv

ps I'm still interested in unloading stuff from my collection so if you think I might have something you need don't hesitate to ask. I'm going to attempt to get some eBay stuff going again by the end of the year. And, yes, there are a few of you with outstanding packages left to send. I WILL get to it at some point.

Building Our 1990 Topps Set - The End

I've never in my life completed a single set by hand. I've owned many sets both by personal purchases and those received as gifts, but I've never known the joy and/or frustration of building an entire set from the ground up.

I'm proud to announce that this is no longer the case. Today I received another trade package in the mail that gave the last few remaining cards I needed to complete Connor's 1990 Topps set!

The most important card of the entire deal, however, is this one...

It's a bad scan I know and it's not a 1990 Topps card. It is a 2008 Bowman Auto of Indian's prospect, Beau Mills.

This card is in one of the five packages I'm mailing out this morning in return for recent trades. The person receiving this card is obviously an Indian's fan and is the person who "completed" this set for me. I'll leave it at that since the person that will be receiving this card has no idea that it's coming.

I wanted to say a quick thanks to everyone that's contacted me concerning trading. I would have loved to have sent an auto to everyone that traded me some 1990 Topps, but it was simply impossible.

I've had this in mind for quite some time and had no idea who would be the the person to complete the set but I didn't want to tie the trades to a contest of any sort. I didn't want there to be a "goal" in unloading your old 1990 Topps.

Thank you to everyone that sent cards, whether as trades or as gifts. I hope I haven't let anyone down with the return packages.

Dave made the comment the other day after I posted my 200th post saying that it seems like just yesterday he was reading the first ever post. I would have to say I wholeheartedly agree.



Treasure Never Buried began with the end of an essay...

"...I do know however, a 4 year old t-ball star sleeping soundly in his bed right now that is going to help me put together a hand collated set of ragged 1990 Topps sometime in the near future. I won’t have to market anything. I won’t have a strategy for convincing him of how fun it can be. I do have faith that he’ll understand the enthusiasm and the magic in my eyes. I trust that my son will hear the faint whisper of a hobby tradition long gone."
Chapter 1 is complete. I could quit now and would have attained everything that I set out to do. I have found comfort in the accomplishments of a job well done.

But...

Then there wouldn't be a Chapter 2 would there?

Baseball Cardized

Completely unexpected, I receive an email today from Travis of Punk Rock Paint stating that he has read Treasure Never Buried from the start and has always enjoyed it. I could stop typing there, leave it at that, and say thanks. I would be content in the satisfaction of knowing that someone appreciates what I've tried to do.

Luckily, I don't have to stop there. Attached to the email was a picture that Travis recently created.

How freakin' awesome is this!!


Thanks for making my day, Travis. This is really, really great and very much appreciated!

My Inner Artist Was Tragically Killed Today

Holy Cow, that looks good!!

If you didn't notice the banner at the top of Treasure Never Buried when you came in, please take a moment to glance back up there.

Isn't that friggin' awesome! Many thanks to W. Ross of BoxBusters for making this banner for me.

As I'm lying in my bed last night, ticked off that I missed the Tampa / Boston game, I glance over at my son who is playing games on my new iPhone. Before I realized what he was doing, it was too late. He had already sent the following reply to my boss:

"wwwwwwwwwwwhyyyslooosssssssssiiiiiiiiiiiiiii l;askjdfnnlwieyyyyyyyyyyy

sonsodffffffffffffffffffff
ccccccccccccnnnnnnnn

roewsassss"

Too late, damage done. Right before I turned in for the night I received an email. I popped over to check it, thinking it was a comment for a post (which is the biggest reason I love my phone...I can moderate comments anytime!) Instead it was an email from W. Ross:
"Hey Jason,

I was reading your site tonite during the game and noticed you changed your banner. I got to thinking about it and started screwing around - not really sure why but I came up with one for you."

It's not secret that I'm artistically challenged. My art has always been my words and on most days I'm not even so great at that. I don't have the time, patience, know how, or determination to do something like this.

I can't say thanks enough to Ross for this outstanding piece of work!!

Happy Birthday, Peanut!!

This is the last picture of me before I officially became a father. It was taken on the airstrip in Uzbekistan prior to my return home from my first tour in Afghanistan.


Five years ago tonight, I sat in the small NICU of the Women's Hospital at River Oaks and held the hand of this little guy...

At around 1 pm that day, Connor was born. I was in the air somewhere between North Carolina and Mississippi and therefore missed his birth by two and a half hours. I arrived at the hospital shortly after 3 pm and found that Connor had been taken to the NICU where he would stay for the next ten days.

To say that this was the most difficult thing I've ever experienced would be an understatement. To have spent the last 12 months gone from home, 6 of those months spent in Afghanistan, waiting impatiently every day to witness the birth of my son, and then to not be able to hold him and take him home was difficult. To worry that he might not make it was heartwrenching.

But now, five years later I look back and say that this was the most beautiful thing I've ever experienced. To have watched, "iouweeu, daey" evolve into "I Love You, Daddy" has been amazing. Watching those first steps, hearing those first words, teaching him how to be a good kid, and watching the world shrink around him have been the greatest things I've ever experienced. It's what I was born to do.

For those who might have missed it, and for those interested in catching up, you can relieve the life of Connor through this video.

The sad thing about being a parent is that it took you as long to watch this slide show as it did for me to live the memories. It all goes by too fast.

Happy Birthday, Son...I look forward to being around for many more to come.

untitled

"You're going to war!! You're going to war!!"
My morning began as such 7 years ago to the day.

I rolled over and tried to block the sun out of my face. The morning rays didn't help my hangover. I stumbled into the living room of the small apartment and asked my roommate to please shut up, that my head was pounding from the case of Budweiser I had attempted to guzzle in it's entirety the night before.

I was disheveled, confused. I would catapult from anger to grinning to solemn disbelief at what I was beginning to watch on television. Is this a blooper reel? Is this a joke? What am I looking at? There is no way this can be real.

My roommate and best friend, Eric, would later go on to correct me. "I didn't say you're going to war. I said we're going to war." He was right and he was wrong at the same time.

I had enlisted in the Mississippi Army National Guard roughly three months prior to that morning. In less than a month, I would be shipping off to boot camp in Fort Jackson, SC. I was terrified and I was angry. I was scared and I felt as if the world had stopped moving. Unfortunately it was spinning faster than ever before. I only wished it had stopped. That time had stopped. That I could wake up all over again and that this had never happened.

Once it sank in I didn't know what to do. I left the apartment and went to the roof of our building where no one could see or hear me and I began to let out sobbing screams of pain and frustration. I didn't want to go to war. I didn't want innocent people to be dead. I didn't want to live through this.

I didn't want to live through this? I didn't realize how selfish I was until a few months later.

In early November, I met a fellow soldier at Boot Camp that had experienced first hand the sadness of New York City during and after the attacks. He, unlike me, had joined after the attacks. I remember a conversation we had one night, one in which he cried almost uncontrollably, recounting to me what he had lived through.

His words forever changed me and my stubborn, selfish mentality. This was bigger than what any us had lived through. I finally realized it was more important to focus on what those thousands of people died for.

Two years later, I was sitting in the middle of Afghanistan. My wife of 7 months was closer to the coming of our first son, Connor. But, I was not the same selfish jerk only worried about the fact that I was missing out on the single most significant event in my life. Although I regret that I wasn't there witness those things I wanted so badly to be a part of, there was comfort in the fact that I was serving my country in response to the most deadly attack ever perpetrated on U.S. soil by an outside agent. I was honoring those fallen.

Today, I'm off from work. I try my best not to work on September 11th each year if at all possible. This is a day I spend with my family. Today is a day that I hold my son and my wife close and thank God that I've been blessed enough to have them. Or better said, blessed enough to have never lost them.

Maybe to some, the 9/11 remembrance posts seem a little much each year. After all it was 7 years ago and we should move on. I've actually heard this sentiment from people each year.

Personally, I don't just do it to honor those fallen. I do it as a means of comfort for anyone reading this blog that lost someone that day. I do it as a way of saying I'm sorry for your grief. There are no words to truly express that. I'm doing my best through the tears right now.

There are those in our country, in our world, and possibly in our midst that will never be the same for the events of 7 years ago. There are those who will never heal. Hopefully, there are those of us who will never forget and will be there each year to say we're sorry. To listen and to love unconditionally those that still need it the most.

I didn't lose a loved one on September 11. I didn't know one single person that died that day. But, I lost out on one of the most important events in my life because of the aftereffects. My sacrifice was a small price to pay in comparison to many others.

Today, when he hugs my neck, when he holds on tight and he looks at me and I hear his little voice say, "I love you, Daddy" I'll probably break down. I don't think I'll be able to contain myself. I'll stand thankful that I have my wife and son. That I can hear Connor's voice one more time. That he's not gone forever.

This post is dedicated to those that can never do that again with their children. I can't imagine your pain and I can only whisper a prayer on your behalf. I promise you that I'll do this for you today.

But even more so are the children who lost their parents in this tragic event. God bless you and comfort you in your grief. You're in my heart and on my mind.

Striving for 5th or The Mesh Between Two Loves...

There was an old tv show that used to title it's episodes with two different names and then separate them with "or" as if to give the viewer the option of choosing the title they felt most applicable. It's bugging the crap out of me that I can't remember what the show was. I always loved that idea and so the title of tonight's post is in honor of this method. If anyone has a clue what I'm talking about, please leave a comment. Otherwise I won't be sleeping anytime soon.

It's no secret that I intend to be a professional writer one day. This blog is only my second serious attempt at beginning the long road towards this dream and it's only the first attempt that can be considered successful. Maybe one day I'll milk some good out of the long hours I poured into the 7 chapters of a failed novel.

Tonight, I came across a post for a book that I had forgotten I had purchased on Amazon a few years ago. I initially bought it to help with term papers and essays that I had to write while taking online courses in Afghanistan.

For the last three years, it's sat on a shelf alongside another book that I had forgotten I had purchased. Stephen King's outstanding work, On Writing. I highly suggest both of these books to anyone interested in furthering their writing skills. The latter is, in my opinion, the most interesting book ever written by King. It stands alone even for those not interested in it for his literary guidance.

I've realized that if I'm ever going to realize this aspiration one day then I had better start now on getting back to the basics. After locating the books, I came back to do some research on Monster.com. While I'm not looking for a job, I wanted to see what's available in the realm of writing. In my area I found that there's not much. Actually, there's not much within a 200 mile radius. So, I dusted off both copies and sat them aside to reread.

After having come up empty in looking to the future, I decided to do some research on the past. The first name that came to mind for me was William Faulkner.

I don't consider William Faulkner to be one of the best American Writers of all time simply because I've NEVER read any of his work. But, apparently the rest of the world does. So, he must have done something very right with his career.

But it's not just Faulkner. I've never spent much time with any of the classics...

Catcher in the Rye, 1984, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, A Clockwork Orange, A Passage To India, Catch-22, Slaughterhouse-Five, The Grapes of Wrath...

Nothing. I've read Of Mice and Men and The Notebook.

Granted, of those listed, I've seen the movie if one were made.

I've read tons of books in my life. I actually read 37 novels in less than two months while in Afghanistan the first time. The first of which was Stephen King's The Dreamcatcher. It took me just shy of two days to finish off this 900+ page monster. I read really fast because once I do sit down to read, I can't focus on anything else. I've never read a book that was made into a movie wherein I liked the movie better. The images in my head of what I'm reading are always better to me than the Hollywood adaptation.

It's just that I've never sat down and read the Classics, those novels, short stories, and essays written by those that have shaped the literary world. I plan to change that.

But, I digress...

Even though I've never read his work I've always had a soft spot for Faulkner considering our birthplace. Had he not died of a heart attack in 1964, he would have been celebrating his 82nd birthday only 24 days after I was born in a small hospital less than 5 miles from where he was born.

My second home, Tupelo, Mississippi, has Elvis.

New Albany, Mississippi, my first home, has Faulkner.

While reading the Wikepedia page on Faulkner, I saw the link for New Albany. I clicked on it and read over some of the facts posted there. I continued to scroll down the page and found 4 names listed as "Notable People".

William Faulkner led the list, obviously.

The second person was a Democratic U.S. Senator by the name of Hubert Stephens who served in the 20's and 30's. Third was Eli Whiteside, a young catcher for the Baltimore Orioles. At first, this name didn't catch my attention. And finally, fourth, was a woman by the name of Betty Wilson.

Betty Wilson lived from September 13, 1890 to February 13, 2006. Mrs. Wilson celebrated the last of her 115 birthdays less than 10 miles from the home of my parents. She lived for 115 years and 153 days. She was survived by one son, five grandchildren, 46 great-grandchildren, 95 great-great-grandchildren and 38 great-great-great grandchildren.

Wow.

Outside of Faulkner, Eli Whiteside is the only other name I know. I don't know why I didn't realize who it was when I first saw the name on Wikipedia.

Eli and I grew up less than one mile from each other in Northhaven, a small community north of the city of New Albany. Although we were never friends, I remember him vividly in Summer League Ball. This kid was a monster with a bat. I can still remember the grown-ups saying, "This kid's gonna make it to the big leagues one day!" I remember thinking that too.

Well, it looks like Eli got his wish. Considering his career so far, I'm positive that it's not to the extent that he wanted. However, there is still plenty of time for this 29 year old to make an impression on the Major Leagues. I know that he's striving to secure a spot in history by doing what he loves. I, for one, am rooting for "a good kid" to hit it big soon. I'll probably be starting an Eli Whiteside collection so if anyone has any to spare, I would like to trade for them.

Tonight, as I read this short of list of four names, the words of every teacher, preacher, motivational speaker and adult in my life ring true.

"You can be anything you want to be when you grow up."

For some, Politics may be the avenue. As much as I like to debate them, I never want to live them. I can argue with the best of them but the lifestyle is not in my blood. I'm a home body. And I'm not a good liar.

For some, the milestone of seeing history unfold for 115 years might be the ticket. For me, I don't think I would want to live after everyone that I knew and loved are gone.

For most of us, I'm sure that one day becoming a Major League Baseball player was a dream of yours as a kid. I know it was one of mine. I had the desire but I never had the talent. Eli, had both.

For me, it's writing. Other than the obvious of being a husband, father, and dog owner, nothing is more important to me. Nothing excites me or compels me as much as putting my thoughts and ideas on paper (or screen, in this case.) No, I don't understand the process like the "professionals" and I don't always utilize the proper grammar and punctuation. That doesn't matter to me. I can correct those deficiencies. Personally, I think the ability is within me. I think I have the talent if I will just apply it.

With that, I have decided to pursue this love. Over the next year, I'm going to shed some of the frivolous pursuits that I've been chasing and focus on making this a reality. I'm not looking to become a millionaire or to even be recognized as one of the greats. I'm simply setting out to do that one thing that has always made me happiest.

Who knows, in the off chance that I'm successful in this endeavor, I might end up on that New Albany list after all.

Senator, Supercentanarian, MLB Baseball Player, prolific American author....

and me...

Make that TWO prolific American authors.

I wouldn't mind that at all...

One More Frickin' Politikin' Post

TNB will be laced with political awareness for a few months. I can't see any other way to be at this time in our country's history. This is not a call to arms for any candidate. I'm not advocating any candidate. I'm not quoting any facts unless otherwise stated. This is just my observation.

I respect the bloggers who stay "card specific". I appreciate those guys but I'll be honest, I'm finding that I don't have as much to say as they do on the subject. 75% of my intended posts are about the hobby. But the other 25% have to be shared to show the full 100% spectrum of who I am. Some may like that. Some may not.

I feel that we as a country stand precariously perched at the edge of a long fall down the side of a mountain. This election is not about Democrat, Republican, or Independent. This election is about the possible continuation of our country as we know it.

We're in a war that could last forever, tied to an energy crisis like never before, while living in a country not living up to it's name. America stands 50/50 on everything. We have many united fronts, but we are divided as a whole.

I personally don't know what we need. I don't know how to fix the problems we face. I'm not a politician and have no desire ever to be. The pessimistic little jv on my left shoulder says the problems can't be fixed at all. He just told me that we're doomed. I hope he's wrong but I can't find the optimistic little jv that used to sit on my right shoulder. I wonder where he went?

I can understand the decisions made by the parties involving their choice for candidates. The majority of the Republican party, I feel, wants this war to end, just not as quickly as the Democrats do. They wanted a strong minded leader with quantifiable ideas and a proven track record for change. Someone that will persevere until this war has ended. Victory is the only foreseeable option for John McCain.

As a man with military experience and two deployments, I can honestly say that I am wholeheartedly against this war. But, I'm not against getting out the right way. On a personal note, no Democrat other than Hillary had a better idea for withdrawal. But those days are over now. Hillary is no more.

I can understand their choice for Vice Presidential candidate, Sarah Palin. Granted, I don't believe everything she says in the same way I don't believe everything any of them say. I still like her. McCain held true to his political agenda and view by choosing her. No one is closer to the type of person that he is, than Palin.

I can understand the reasons Barack Obama has made it as far as he has. You think the Democrats are worried about one 4 year election? Come on. Whether he's elected or not, they're "buying" the votes for the next 40 to 50 years. How many 40+ Americans are undecided? I agree, not many. How many people under 40 are undecided? See my point.

Yes, the man is an outstandingly eloquent speaker with an optimistic and concerned approach to the Country's well being. No, he has literally no creditable executive experience. Yes, our generation doesn't care anymore about experience. They only want change. Maybe we're all idiots for being so gung ho for change that we overlook things that should be there. It doesn't matter. Our current system doesn't work and we want someone to fix it.

Otherwise, explain why John McCain, Mitt Romney, John Edwards, Fred Thompson, and Rudy Guilliani weren't as popular with the younger generation as Obama and Ron Paul were. We don't necessarily know how to fix it but we know it's broken.

Biden...ok...I'll admit. I don't understand that one. Yes, he has comparable experience to McCain but I think there were more suitable running mates in the Democratic party. I'll never fully understand this one. Did the top names say, "no" to an Obama ticket? We may never know.

Something has got to give or our children might not live in the same country as we do in 100 years. We are naive to think that our Constitution will continue to stand the test of time. We are gullible to think that our infrastructure can't crumble, that a mild recession now can't possibly turn into a Great Depression part II tomorrow. We are wrong to assume that it will just get better.

Maybe I'm wrong in thinking that this election holds more precedence than any other we've seen in our lifetime.

It doesn't matter if the "warmonger" or the "toddler" wins... Regardless, one of these guys will lead us into the future.

Who will you follow?

A Man Without A Team

Lately, I've questioned what I'm still doing here. I visit the card blogs multiple times daily and read the words of those that I consider to have a more unique writing style than I. I read the reviews and the opinions of those that understand the hobby and the sport better than me. I read my own posts and wonder, "how many more friggin' times am I gonna say the words Google Reader".

Yet, I stick around wondering how long people will keep linking to me considering the direction in content I've subconsciously headed in. I spend hours upon hours submitting posts to social sites, feeds to RSS sites, and emails to non-card blogging sites, all in an attempt to build a deeper reader base.

Then I wonder why I'm spending so much time promoting a blog lacking quality updates.

Maybe I'm uninspired of late. Maybe I'm losing my fervor. I honestly don't know. I've been thinking lately that it's because I'm a man without a team. Tonight, I've realized that I'm wrong.

Until tonight, I haven't known what, who, or why I continue to collect. It's not the "thrill of the chase" anymore because the Relic Fever broke a long time ago. And it's not because of the autos because, frankly, I have no clue who half the guys that I've pulled are. I'll probably never care about any of them either.

I think the problem has been that when I left the hobby, I left the sport as well. In early 2007, I came back to not only the old shoe boxes of Donruss, but SportsCenter, too. I didn't know who was who anymore. I didn't now which teams were "alive" or which players had retired. I had no clue who any of the starting lineup for my beloved Indians were.

Some might call it "familiarity," and I would have to agree, that it was just easier to pick up my Manny Collection where I left off. I did know that he was a BoSox due to headlines I had read from their first World Series win. But, I asked myself, "Where's Lofton, Baerga, Thome?" I was naive to think it would all be sitting there waiting for me.

What is an Albert Pujols and why is he in McGwire's position? Where are the Expos? What happened to Fleer and Score?

And, the most embarrassing to admit, "Which one is left field and which one is right?" I had literally been gone that long.

As a child, your favorite team is born out of something you experience, something that has an impact on you. No matter what the reason and no matter what the scenario, you start to follow a team or player because of something they "do" for you as a person. For me, that player was Kenny Lofton. And because of it, that Team was the Cleveland Indians.

I was never a very good hitter in Baseball. I actually never hit a true home run. But, I hit my fair share (and then some) of In The Park Homers as a kid. I was lightning fast. My coaches made me bunt 3 out of 4 times every game just to get me on base. The 4th time they would let me swing away because my mom, Janet, was screaming, "Just let him hit!!"

I couldn't catch very well either, but it was masked by the fact that I could get to most anything before it dropped. I idolized the speed of Kenny Lofton and mirrored his style.

From there it was Omar Vizquel, Jim Thome, Carlos Baerga, Sandy Alomar, Albert Belle, Charles Nagy, Eddie Murray, and ultimately, Manny Ramirez. At some point, I had a collection going for all of these guys and countless others. I would watch as they would slowly fall away and retire, quit, or get traded. When I last looked, Lofton was in center field with an Indians' hat on.

When I returned, I quickly found that he was still there. It was actually one of the first things I checked on. But, earlier this summer I pulled a 2004 Topps Chrome of Lofton in a Yankee's uniform and said, "Huh"?

I went online and started digging around to find stats and reasons and explanations for why the leader among active players in stolen bases was traded at some point. I was blown away to find that not only had he been traded but that he had played for over 10 different teams since I last paid attention. Disheartening comes to mind.

And so, after all of that, I realize that the reason I've struggled for direction in my writing is simply that I haven't had any. Everything has been based around the newest releases, the latest gimmicks, and the daunting task of introducing my son to Baseball Cards. With the exception of the latter, I've been in it for the wrong reasons.

So, tonight, I've decided to revive my Kenny Lofton Collection. Sure, I like watching the guys I've collected in the past. I'll still keep looking for a nice "fitted, faded dark blue, retro logo" Indians hat. I may even still try to get up to Cleveland to drink a Budweiser and watch some guys that I know nothing about play ball for a couple of hours.

I'll still grimace a little when I see Junior struggle to hit, The Big Hurt struggle for a spot on a club, and I'll still read and watch the news to see if Manny's pulled a Sprewell and choked the shit of out someone.

It didn't all start with a Team anyway. The Love started with a player...

It's Kenny Lofton that I'll be collecting from here on out. Indian or not...

Weed Eating Logos

Last night, I found these pictures that I had taken a few weeks back. The marks in the wall happened over 15 years ago while I was using my dad's "Weed Eater" to clean up the edges around his shed. The weeds tangled around the line and as I ripped the weed eater into the air the line hit the shingle style siding of the building, knocking chunks of it loose.

For months I worried, scared that my dad would be mad at me for having torn the wall. He never found out that it was me. Until now, if he's reading this post.

After all this time...rain, snow, wind and sun have not been able to wash it away...


This has got to be the first ever "Phillies Logo Accidentally Etched Into a Shingled Wall With a Weed Eater....EVER!"

The MySpace Blogs...Blog 03

Last one...I swear...

My Favorite Method of Hurting People Who Deserve It
Current mood: apathetic
Original Posted: Wed, January 23, 2008

If you know me at all, then you know that I occassionally use a phrase to describe the method of vengeance I intend to met out to someone who has just wronged me or put me in a position of awkwardness. I use this phrase as a "last resort". A way of describing what I would consider the worst form of payback at that present moment.

Mind you it's probably not the worst thing you could do to a person. For instance, you might make fun of my purple polo work shirt. That's not reason enough for me to say, "I'm going to burn your house down." That's not even really reason enough to say, "I wish you would french kiss the grill of a moving Greyhound Bus." That's a little extreme.

My favorite catchphrase in this regards is much simpler, straightforward, and logical. I consider it to be the most extreme because, with the exception of the time Reed disrespected my wife and I punched him in the face or the time I broke my stepbrother's nose playing football, I'm not a violent person. This phrase seems to me to be the worst thing I could do to someone at the time.

In all the times that I had used my phrase I had never truly considered the ramifications of it. It's not something so elaborate that you have to plan how you will carry it out. You can prewarn someone that you intend to eventually do this to them for what they've done to you or, if it serves you better, you can do it immediately.

What is this phrase?

"I'm going to punch you in the throat."

Notice there is no exclamatation point at the end. It's not said in anger. You don't have to prove your furious with someone by shouting it or saying it forcefully. The nature of the act alone details it's own ferociousness. If someone knows that you're going to punch them in the throat it's worry enough. You don't have to say it with any sense of empowerment.

Until last night, I have been proud of my use of this phrase. Luckily, for some of the individuals I've said this to, I've never had to actually do it. The fear of the impending attack was enough to get my point across. But simply having this effective phrase in my arsenal has been, to me, a sense of achievement.

I have sincerely intended to make good on my statement many times. In a sense, I have some regret that I never fulfilled this promise. I think it would have been a learning experience for both myself and the victim. I do, however, worry that I would have become addicted to carrying out the act had I at least done it once.

It is with deepest sorrow that I have to tell you that I will no longer be utilizing this phrase. I have officially retired this to the history of Jason.

Why? Why would I do such a thing? Last night, Connor was watching the new animated Transformers on Cartoon Network. He would watch for about 2 minutes and then he would go barrelling through the house acting out what he was seeing on the television. Near the end of the program, I decided to join in.

All was well for the first 10 minutes of play. He would transform from Optimus to Bumblebee to Jazz. Occassionally he would transform from an Autobot to a Decepticon. This would confuse me entirely as to what my current status was in role play. Obviously, if he is one, I am the other.

I pulled my hood over my eyes and proclaimed, "I am NoEyesBot!" and began to blindly chase him. He alluded me several times until I finally cornered him by the chair. I swung him victoriously above my head as he flopped and writhed to escape. I eventually balanced him upright above my head at which point his feet darted straight out in front of him.

His left foot landed on my head. For some reason, I got a kick out of it, no pun intended. As I began to laugh my head tilted back at a reasonably large angle and the first sounds of laughter began to break from my voice. Before I could release anything audible to describe to Lori, who was sitting on the couch, what was occuring, his right foot swooped in and clocked me square in the, you guessed it, throat.

I immediately crumpled to the ground! Amidst the coughing and gagging from the pain of the small foot slamming into my larynx I began to think of one thing, over and over again. "I can't believe I ever wanted to punch anyone in the throat! This shit hurts!!"

For the next 5 or 6 minutes, while recovering from the shocking blow, I made a vow. I will never again threaten to punch anyone in their throat. No man should feel what I've felt.

Deep down I'll still always want to. I don't know if I'll ever completely dissolve the urge. I'll just have to try to remember what it would be like to walk a mile in their turtleneck. But, since I'm somewhat of an unimposing figure, I do still need something at the ready to say in the event that I need to assert myself and how far I'm willing to go to correct someone's attitude or actions.

Any suggestions?

The MySpace Blogs...Blog 02... Z O M B I E S

Zombies have infected me...I MEAN AFFECTED ME...I’m not a zombie, I promise
Category:Movies, TV, Celebrities
Original Posted: Fri, Jan 18, 2008

Tonight, my wife and son are on the road to visit my younger sister during the baby shower for my impending niece. I'm going to curl up on the couch with my Chihuahua, Yoga Sprinkles, drink about 12 budweisers and watch all of the scary zombie movies I've been missing lately. My wife refuses to watch horror movies at anytime of the day, anywhere.

With that in mind, I want my second blog to be about something as equally important to me as shitting. Actually, I'm doing it while shitting. Tonight's topic is:

Z O M B I E S

Steadily creeping up my all time favorite movies of all time list (I'm from the Department of Redundancy Department) is the oft-overlooked remake of a true American Classic, Dawn of the Dead.

Throughout the whole of my life, I've never had anything affect me as forcefully as this movie. I have never been more scared of anything in my life. It's not zombies, per say, that scare me. Its zombies that run after you like you just stole their wallet that scare the everlovin' shit out of me.

Come casually strolling towards me, arms outstretched, uneaten portion of a woman's cerebellum hanging out of your mouth, I'm cool with that. I can get away from you. You're not, under any circumstances whatsoever, going to catch me. I'll actually probably taunt you somewhat before I heroically kill you with a claw hammer.

However, open up full gait like a thoroughbred at the gunshot whilst coming after me, and, I'm sorry, but I'm going to lie down and cry while you eat me. I'm not even going to fight. I'm actually probably going to strategically manipulate my jugular into the most opportune position for the zombie to end me quicker. I don't necessarily want to be the undead's meal. Instead, I would prefer to die quickly during the dining experience so that I can at least come back as a zombie myself. Undead life is better than no life.

This movie has affected me in ways that I can not begin to explain fully to you nor comprehend for my own sanity. I lie awake in bed at night at least 3 or 4 times a month, unable to sleep, planning my escape were this ever to become a reality. Unbeknownst to my wife (until this blog, that is) I have gone as far as to strategically place items such as flashlights, clothing, and weaponry at various locations and/or hotspots around my home.

I do this so that in the event of an attack by marathon running zombies not only will I be prepared but I will also look really cool to my wife as if I instinctively knew how to react to said attack without warning. That will make the "we're safe from the zombies for a while" sex even that much more amazing. How cool would it be to reminisce 20 years later and tell your child while lovingly hugging your wife, "yep, little Jason Jr., I remember the night you were conceived."

For anyone who has yet to see this movie, I must make the following disclaimer:

WARNING: YOU MUST WATCH THIS MOVIE ALL THE WAY PAST THE CREDITS TO THE BITTER END! IF YOU WATCH MORE THAN 10 MINUTES OF THIS MOVIE AND DO NOT ULTIMATELY COMPLETE IT, YOU WILL NOT GET THE FULL EFFECT OF WHAT I HAVE DESCRIBED!

If you stop midway of the movie you will say to yourself, "that's kinda scary I reckon' but I wutn't too afeared of it." That's what you will say if you are a hillbilly under the circumstances listed above. If you are a normal speaking American it will sound similar to the following, "I suppose that was somewhat scary but, in all honesty, by Jove I wasn't quite as scared as I anticipated." That pretty much covers everyone except for the, "by Jove" part. Not many people will say that.

My point being is that the credits are by far the scariest part of the entire movie. You obviously have to watch the entire movie to get the full effect, i.e. you can't just watch the credits and say, "those last 5 minutes alone, without any knowledge of the rest of the movie, scared the pure-d-hell out of me." It doesn't work that way, Clem.

I won't spoil the movie for anyone who has yet to see it. But, I recommend that you go out and rent it at your earliest convenience. Don't say I didn't warn you though.

The MySpace Blogs...Blog 01

Until last night, while chatting with Dave of Fielder's Choice, I had forgotten that I had started a blog at MySpace earlier in the year. It wasn't so much a blog in the sense that I wrote it for strangers as much as I did to make my friends laugh. Once TNB began, I was basically just pasting links there as a means to get back to here.

The first is a little graphic. Although it's funny, it's graphic. And, sadly enough, it's true.

The MySpace Blogs 3 part series is not Baseball related so feel free to skip it if you want. However, there's some pretty funny stuff in there...

Oh, and by the way, the two guys commenting are two buddies of mine that posted comments to the original. I'm bringing them over for posterity's sake... Enjoy!!

Fitting that I start out this way...
Current mood: awake
Category: Life
Original Posted: Sunday, Feb 3, 2008

This is my first attempt at blogging and I think it only fitting that I relay a story to you about something that has been a tremendously abundant factor in my life. Marriage? No. Kids? No. My military exploits? No. What is it you might ask?

Shitting. Plain and simple.

I think you can handle what little language I intend to use here to illustrate what occurred. If not, sorry, your loss. It's pretty damned funny.

A few nights ago at work I sat down to have a late lunch. I chose, from the many delectable choices spread across the menu of my restaurant, to eat a simple salami sandwich on sourdough with a little pizza sauce for good measure. As a side item I decided on a cup of macaroni and cheese with some chili mixed in.

As anyone who knows me will attest, I then proceeded to "smother" my side item in Tabasco sauce. If ever I choose to stop eating Tabasco sauce I can guarantee you that they will have to file for bankruptcy. I pay their light bill with as much as I buy.

Midway through my meal it became abundantly clear to me that I would need to shit very soon. I finished my meal and proceeded to the restroom. It was slow going at first because I had an upset stomach and some minor constipation. After nearly 5 minutes of agony I felt a sneeze coming on.

My face squenched. My ears rose. My eyes dimmed. As the first millisecond of the sneeze occurred an unexpected belch developed as well. At that point I was so committed to the sneeze that I had absolutely no control over canceling the sneeze's progress nor had I any say in hindering the belch's development.

Both occurred simultaneously. The belch brought small remnants of my meal back into my throat at which point the sneeze propelled those remnants into my nasal cavity. An overwhelming pain shot through a part of my throat that had apparently never been exposed to Tabasco sauce. This same pain then seared through my nose as hot sauce slathered chili and mac-n-cheese began to pour out of my nose.

As I sat there in pain, food coming out of my nose, my eyes welled up with tears. Somewhere during this course of this episode all of my body's conscious and subconscious focus rested solely on the face and upper throat region. It was at this time that the rest of my body lost all of its natural inhibitions and I began to uncontrollably...how should I say this...shit everywhere.

It was one of the most uncomfortable situations I've ever experienced.

Wow, what a good first blog. I'm proud.

Memories Of The Way We Were

"Nah, I ain't moved any of 'em in years. Nobody's interested in 'em anymore. It's a dead market." the clerk said smugly.

For a brief second, the old man's response pushed me back onto my heels. Rarely am I at a loss for words. This turned out to be one of those times.

"I, uh, hear that they're making a comeback, though." I said.

"Don't go holdin' your breath, young man." He replied.

I grinned sheepishly and turned to make my way around the rest of the store. I felt defeated as I halfheartedly flipped through vintage coins and dusty old records and considered his words. Is he right? Who really collects anymore? Could I really be the only person that has walked into his store in the last couple of years curious about the jumble of cards on display?

I had found this place by accident in a part of town that I had never been to. The buildings and streets were so dilapidated that most businesses had been closed for years. The only storefronts with active tenants were second hand shops, liquor stores, and the usual Cash Advance scam artists. Traffic had been rerouted from this area decades ago when the Interstate replaced the Highway. The “Route 66 Effect” had all but condemned the small “Guns, Jewelry, Coins, and Pawn” that I now stood in.

Halfway around the room, I found a metal locker packed full of old binders. I received a few glances as I laughed out loud, opening and shutting the Velcro flap on the Trapper Keeper full of cards. I don't even remember now what cards were in that binder. The binder's nostalgia had me completely enveloped in the moment.

I carefully removed each of them, one by one, and flipped through the pages, envisioning the kid that had touched them for the last time when they were sold to the shop. I quickly realized the collecting patterns of the person that had owned these cards. Random star cards up front, chronologically sorted commons in the middle andTerry Pendleton, Deion Sanders football cards, and a severely damaged Glavine Rated Rookie at the back.

Brave's fans...

Then I smiled, realizing that I only recognized this because in the early '90's, I was a Brave's Fan, too.

I grimaced as I picked up a “sealed” wax box of 1988 Fleer. Once again I envisioned a collector, only this time it was a greasy mullet-headed buffoon in a Def Leppard shirt, ironing the packs to reseal them, giggling to his buddy about the sweet Barry Bond's Rookie that he just found. I quickly placed the box back on the shelf.

For the next few minutes I perused the inventory of what most collector's would call junk. I found some old Hoops Basketball that I had entirely forgotten about, tons of gloriously red Donruss, and finally a binder full of 1990 Topps that I need to complete my sets.

“.20 cents a card?” I thought. Ouch.

I sauntered lazily around the last half of the small room and along the way came I across some old 1989 Classic Card Games still sealed in their original packs.

“$12.50 apiece?” I thought again, this time audibly. “These must just be old prices.”

I made my way back to the cards held securely in the locked glass cabinets. They were stacked in neat piles and most were encased in overly thick screw down holders. The rest of them had been placed in top loaders and then shoved as tightly as possible into open shoe box bottoms. I made every attempt to view the cards, switching from one angle to another to see if I could determine anything underneath those sitting on the top of the stacks. A couple of Bo Jackson Rookies, some graded Canseco's, and one DiMaggio Bat card with a $150 sticker on it. I wasn't familiar with the year or the style of the card (until now) and I had no intentions of becoming more familiar with it after I saw the asking price.

After 15 minutes of browsing the merchandise offered, I decided to try to speak to the store owner one last time. I waited patiently on the outskirts, arms folded, listening to the dealer haggle with an irate potential seller about an item that he had brought in to unload for some quick cash.

“I mean, come on, man! It's nicer 'an anthin' you got in this case!” the customer exclaimed.

“But look right 'cher at the chain! What is this?” the clerk replied.

“I know it's held on 'er with fishin' wire but look here. Do you know who that is on tha' metal thang? Come on, man, it's Jesus Christ! On...HIS Cross!” he bellowed.

I wish that I had embellished on this dialogue in order to make you laugh. Unfortunately, most uneducated people in the South speak this way. This is, literally, word for word, what the customer said. The stereotype wouldn't even exist if someone hadn't created it through their words and deeds.

It made me want to move to Michigan or California or Europe. Instead, I shook my head and left the store.

I drove away considering the words of the clerk. “That market's dead” and “don't hold your breath” played over in my mind like the countless Barry Manilow records he had for sale. I discounted this mentality as being derived from the fact that most of his clients aren't interested in $150 pieces of cardboard, embedded bat pieces or not. I'm sure they pay his electricity bill each month by buying the speakerboxes, cubic zirconia, and huntin' rifles and for that, I think he's right. That market, his market, is dead for sports collectibles.

I considered the .20 cent Topps commons, the $12.50 Classic Game sets, and the $150 DiMaggio Bat Card. Only one of them made sense. I concluded that this individual simply had no concept of pricing for these products and had wisely based these prices on a margin of profit that he considered worthy of the cost.

And then, as I was driving away, it hit me.

“I know that base design.” I said as I sat at one of the many red lights I still had left to go before I got “back across the tracks.”

I rifled through the virtual sports card image database in my head and kept coming up blank. I immediately knew that it was vintage. This was furthered by the fact that he had a badly centered '59 Koufax perched atop one of the stacks. I had only got a glimpse of the corner but I know it's in my head somewhere.

“It's not '52, I would know that anywhere.” I pondered.

1960, 1948, 1971. Everything in between. And that's when I realized what it was. I had only seen a small piece of the cap's brim on the player's head.

“It's the '58 Mantle.” I exclaimed, at roughly the same time that the cars behind me began to exclaim that I should move through the green light.

I made a daring U-turn, wildly glancing around, hoping that blue lights would not be in my immediate future. I had only driven a few miles from the store but 5:30 pm was fast approaching and I wanted to insure that I got back before they left for the day.

I sped into the parking lot and ran back inside, all the while, hoping that “Clem” wasn't still haggling for a better price on his “Jesus Chain”.

For just a moment, let's step outside the story for a brief commercial break:

Have you ever found a rare item in the most unsuspecting of places? Have you ever realized this after the fact only to reenter the establishment in what is widely considered to be a mad dash? If so, was this item of your affection located at a pawn shop in the ghetto?

If you answered yes to all of the questions above, please stop what you're doing and contact your loved ones, appreciative that you are still alive.

This is not a smart thing to do. People in the ghetto, especially people at a pawn shop in the ghetto, do not take kindly to you running through their front door for any reason, '58 Mantles included. In the unlikely event that you are still breathing or that you do not have shards of metal embedded in your body, inflicted by the gunshot wound, consider yourself a walking miracle.

“Now we know! And knowing is half the battle.”

MO!!! JO!!!

(editor's note: best use of MOJO to date...sweeeet...)

“Can I look at the rest of the cards?” I belted out, all too eagerly.

After the clerk stepped away from the gun rack, he reluctantly obliged. Once again, I moved towards the small display case and pointed to the stack that I wanted to see. Sure enough, it was a '58 Mickey Mantle. I was in shock. I have rarely held a Mantle Card that the number on the back wasn't 7 or that didn't begin with an MHR of some sort. He took the card out of the case and handed it to me.

Remember the stories from your parents/grandparents/great-grandparents about how cards were put into the spokes of the kid's bikes to make the clicking sound? Well, this particular card must have been used in the spokes of a Cadillac to produce the same effect. I have seen British teeth in better condition.

For me, it was still amazing. The stains and creases only made the card more magical. Where had this card been? At what point did someone say, “I don't need this anymore.” Who in their right mind would want to ever part ways with this card?

I am not a rich man and have to wisely spend money on my collection when I can. I realized that this would be as close to owning a Mickey Mantle card from that era as I would ever be. I was ecstatic that the card was so badly damaged.

“I'm walking out of here with this thing for $10 bucks.” I thought to myself.

Logically, my next question was, “how much.”

After about a 10 second pause, the clerk stated, “I don't know.”

“I'm sorry, I said how much.” I replied, certain that he had misunderstood my question, that he thought I had inquired about the year or the set or possibly even the player on the card.

“I don't rightly know off tha top of my head.” He said.

You don't know? This is your store! How can you have anything here that you don't have some kind of price tag for? That's what I wanted to say.

I considered that maybe he thought I was about to try to swindle him out of something valuable. Me running through the front door like a child escaping the summer heat didn't help matters much either, I suppose.

“Well, since I haven't looked at anything else that you have in those stacks, how much would you want for the entire collection?” I asked. I felt that this was the most honest way of purchasing these cards without feeling guilty if there were other valuable items entailed. My question posed an ethical 50/50 chance for both parties involved.

But, once again, my inquiry received the same reply, “I don't know.”

And then, as I attempted to gain some sort of semblance from the situation at hand, he said what each of you have been expecting him to say the entire time. Only, he said it in a way that I feel confident NONE of us has ever heard before. As before, I'm quoting the clerk word for word.

As he pointed to a shelf behind the counter, he stated, “Well, I'd have to go lookin' through that book they send ever' month in the mail and I don't know how long that would take to do. Why don'cha come back in here some day and pick out a handful yer intrested in and we'll have a look see.”

And, just like that I realized that I had probably come as close to that Mantle card as I ever will. I'm sure I can find a better deal on a PSA graded 7 somewhere on the internet for roughly the price that Beckett will tell him to sell his ungraded “1” to me. But, the fact of the matter is, it's not a 1958 Mickey Mantle that I want. It's that particular 1958 Mickey Mantle that I want.

I shook his hand and then thanked him for his time. I told him that I would be back one day to look at the rest of the cards. I intend to, only next time with my son in tow.

Until then I'll ponder the dead market that he spoke of. As of right now, I have to say that I am starting to partially agree with his sentiment. As I drove away from the pawn shop, I couldn't help but wonder that if he's right and this is a dead (or soon to die) market, then who is truly to blame for killing it?