A year older, and a year... older.

It's been a week since my biffday. I'm now 31 years, and one week old. And feeling every day of it. As you will read in my column which ran last week. (And here it is:)

FORGET PRESENTS - SEND THE FROZEN VEGGIES

Having just survived yet another birthday, I began to reflect on what it is to get older. One of the celebratory cards, sent to me by a supposedly loving friend, read like this:

Success is . . .
At four years old: not peeing in your pants.
At 12: it's having friends.
At 17: it's having a drivers' licence.
At 20: it's having sex.
At 35: it's having money.
At 50: it's still having money.
At 60: it's having sex.
At 70: it's having a drivers' licence.
At 75: it's having friends.
At 80: Not peeing in your pants.

Boy, did I laugh until I cried. Well, minus the laughing part.
The moment seemed doubly ironic, considering I read the card while laying under several packs of frozen peas, the victim of yet another bad-back relapse. I suddenly knew that I was officially old, since my back goes out way more than I do these days.
I thought I might have been a little too worrisome about my back, but the doc confirmed my advancing years when he said "I have good news and bad news. The good news is you're not a hypochondriac."
I'm feeling my age these days, though I won't even tell you where I rank on the above birthday card chart. Let's just say I've found myself saying those those three words that mark your passage into the realm of Old Fogeydom: "Kids these days..." (Shakes head).
Here are some of the memorable sporting events that happened on my birthday, some of them I was even old enough to remember. Though they say the there are three things that go when you get old; the first is your memory. And I can't remember the other two...
Anyways, on to:
ON J.J.'s BIRTHDAY IN SPORTS
In 1912, the Red Sox-Yankees rivalry got a new home with the opening of Fenway Park in Boston. The Sox edged the soon-to-be Evil Empire 7-6 in extra innings, giving generations of Boston fans something to thrive on in the lean years/decades.
In 1958, my Habs won their third straight Stanley Cup by beating the Boston Bruins in Game 6. I think the Leafs were already golfing that year.
In 1897, John J. (JJ) McDermott wins the first Boston marathon, finishing in two hours, 55 minutes and 10 seconds. Ninety-five years later, Kenya's Ibrahim Hussein wins his third Boston Marathon, finishing 47 minutes faster than McDermott. Russian woman Olga Markova, who kind of looked like McDermott, times in at 2:23.43.
My birthday also lands on or around the final day of the NBA regular season, where Michael Jordan was crowned scoring champion an unprecendented nine straight times. He won No. 9 in 1997 with a 29.6 ppg average, the first time he wins without cracking the 30-point mark.
Although my renowned skills on the basketball court are well-documented (Hey - it's my birthday. I can say whatever the heck I want), it's not Jordan I feel a kinship two, but the final two events
In 1991, George Foreman, then 42, pushes Evander Holyfield to the limit in a 12-round bout, losing only on a decision. Three years later, he took on Mike Moorer, who had beaten Holyfield for the belts, and knocked him out to become the oldest heavyweight champion ever. Old people rejoice.
Then, last season in the Majors, Julio Franco becomes the oldest player in MLB history to hit a home run, helping his Mets down San Diego 7-2. The 47-year-old Franco replaced Oakland A's pitcher Jack Quinn, who was 46 when he set the mark in 1930. Old people rejoice.
While my doctor says I "have the back of a 55-year-old," I figure I still have a couple good years left in me. And as inspiring as Foreman and Franco are, I still have my glory years to fall back on.
Then again, it's hard to be nostalgic when you can't remember anything.


Yep, that's the quality of writing I'm putting out these days. Pretty bad, I know. I blame it on the alcohol. It seems to take the sting out of getting old... lol

The Okey-Dokey is warming up these days. The boat has already been in the water, but the plan is to get the wakeboard in the water by the first day of May. I sense a case of shrinkage coming on.
The NBA playoffs are here, and instead of boring you with the usual trash-talking, etc... I thought I'd share this video. This is some German kid freaking out while playing a video game (How the HELL did those people ever take over Europe?), but some enterprising Utah Jazz fan translated it into English for us.



And, to top it off, the story of the day. And yes, I've already been called Christine twice today. You're too late. Get some new material.

A trip abroad, and a trip not taken

First of all, HAPPY EASTER!



Anyways, my folks took a trip - on a plane, no less - for the first time in about 648 years last week.
My pops sucked it up (by "it" I mean his legs and gut) and crammed himself aboard a plane to L.A., along with my stepmom. The trip, apparently, was a big success, and left my dad with a burning desire to buy a Ford Expedition and find a Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles closer to home.
You might recall THIS picture of me. Well, I guess I inspired my pops, because...

And, of course, what trip to L.A. (Under the guise of visiting my sister) would be complete without a trip to the set of CSI: Miami? Lucky for you, I've got the shots...


The sis and some dude I don't recognize... Oh, wait? Is that Caruso? And he's smiling? Wow. That's amazing....


The 'Rents get in on the action...


The 'Rents get in on the action, Pt. II... with Rex Linn, aka Detective Frank Tripp.


You know nothing is going on when I'm talking about my parents' paparazzi ways, but it's true. Little to report on my end. The boarding season ends on Monday, and so begins my quest to get back in six-pack beach shape. You know, like I always have.
Madden is still growing, but how, I don't know. He eats like a bird - except when it comes to my roomie's dog's food. Then he's a pig. But put it in his bowl, and suddenly he's picky again. We'll see what happens at the end of this month, when my mom's dog comes to stay for a month. Whoa, boy. There's going to be some woofin goin on.

My Hawaii plans took a bit of a hit recently, when I found out about this story. This was the same boat I'd planned to learn the business on. Captain John John (aka John Savio) was the guy who offered us the job when we were in Waikkiki, but I think he has a little more on his mind right now then hiring some Canadian landlubber.


Captain John John, in happier times.


The very mast that snapped, two weeks after we left. Surreal.