Training Update

I thought I'd just write all my friends (and I count all my fans as friends and my friends as fans) and give a quick update to how my training is going.

As most of you know, training for the Cup-Stacking Olympics can be a grueling and thankless undertaking. And don't get me started on the politics. Aside from the small problems with our first coach -- he really just didn't understand that he wasn't in Slovenia or Slovakia (or whatever Slavic country he was from) anymore and in the United States we have rights. His rules and curfews were as bad as Hitler and his idea of Olympic fashion was atrocious. Once he was replaced, things have pretty much fallen into place with the team.

So don't believe all that trash they've been printing about us. The behind-the-scenes in-fighting and late-night hook-ups simply are nothing like as bad as they've described. Jeannie (the only girl even close to as fast as me) is really a sweet friend. If my style is just a little looser, a little better, than hers, it's not something we fight about. She really did fall down those stairs and since then she has apologized over and over again about making those accusations. Like I've said before, painkillers can make you say crazy things.

Anyhow, I've got pretty much everything in my routine nailed down, but am having "creative differences" with my personal Ukrainian coach. He insists I should do something he calls a "quiet close" (if you ask me it is just a sudden stop) where I place the last cup and make this slow sweeping motion with my arms.

But I'm convinced I need a big finish, something that will leave the folks in the back row of the stadium gasping. If only I can convince the cup-stacking governing body (CSIA), to allow the use of pyrotechnics. Please help me decide what to do. Should I fire Vlad and do it my way, or give him one more try. I will try to figure out how to put a survey on this blog thingee and you can vote one way or the other. Whatever you decide, I'll do.

Just remember, everything depends on the next competitive heat where the new head coach decides who participates in which event. I will just die if my friend Jeannie gets to do the freestyle and I'm stuck with the technical events. She won't say this to the press, because of the gag order, but even she tells me that "No one performs the Flying Dutch Squat like" yours truly

Wish me luck!

No Worries, at least not next time

We're still recovering from moving in June (or was it July, it's all a blur now). But I think I have finally reached that stage of the healing process where I can talk (or write) about the traumatic experience.

The hardest part about the move (or at least one of the many hard parts) is notifiying everyone and then trying to explain it. So, for the most part, we have ignored it, putting off the chore of sending out change of address notices until now. The holiday season (which I will excoriate in a future posting) has exacerbated the situation. The issue is this -- our address has changed so very little. Not much at all, in fact. Only 9 digits, to be precise. You see our new address is:

1436 Mordor's Way
Merkin, TX
(not our real new address)

Our old house address was 1445 Mordor's Way.
(not our real old address)

Did you catch that? Do you see the problem?

Old = 1445
- New = 1436
===============
= 0009

Yes, we moved 9 whole digits away. Let me make that clear. That's 9 digits, not miles, not blocks, not even houses -- 9 digits. And that's even closer here in our part of Merkin, since every lot is equivalent to 4 digits. What all this means is simple -- we moved two houses down. And across the street.

Out of a certain masochistic curiosity, I went to Google Maps and asked for a travelogue of our projected move. Here are the instructions in their entirety:

1. Turn Right on Mordor's Way.
2. Proceed 187 feet.
3. Turn Left.

I have never, ever, not even once in all my life have I ever experienced a worse move. I think the folks selling us their house (friends and neighbors, of course) had an easier move. From 1436 Mordor's Way, Merkin, TX to 205 Smeagol Dr., LL Beane, NH. Such was my frame of mind as I walked a dolly (or hand truck) loaded with four or five boxes of books the 187 feet from house A to house B. My new (and old) neighbor yelled across the street to me, "Easiest move ever!"

If I hadn't been staying in the neighborhood I would have, at the very least, flipped him the bird. What I wanted to do was put his bald cranium in a head lock and goose-step him over to my garage. If he thought it was so easy, he could move my shit.

Well, as the Aussies love to say, "No Worries." Especially since I have decided that the next time I move I won't know what year it is and I'll be wearing a diaper under my pajamas.