They love me! They really love me!

Le thrill!

The calls, emails and good vibes sent out to the universe did nothing. Precisely nothing.

I hadn't heard from the job in the last two weeks, was giving up all hope, and figured I'd start anew with my other job leads and maybe even take the shitty job with the beverage distribution company. "Hey," I reasoned, "one of the industries that is always safe in an economic downturn is booze." And don't I know it? I haven't been hitting the bottle in this latest upset, but have been known to do so in the past.

Le sigh.

But then yesterday, a crappy day by all accounts, a day I wasn't even going to check email because of other more pressing issues, I happened to check my email and -- le shock! -- what to my wondering eyes should appear but an email from the job I'd been obsessing about for the past fortnight.

I figured it was just a blow-off email. The "hey, thanks for interviewing, but we found someone else, so kindly piss off," variety. I opened it.

I have a second interview scheduled tomorrow at 1:30 pm, mountain time. Good vibrations and thoughts and feelings (and praying if you do that sort of thing) around that time would be much appreciated.

Losing track of time; Losing my mind

I keep looking at the clock.

Keep looking at the date.

And then at my phone. To see if she's called. Or texted.

The answer is still the same. No.

I'm losing track of time, losing my mind at the same time.

I know I get to see her tomorrow. I know this. And it brings me a lot of comfort.

But at the same time... having not seen her since last Tuesday night... and not having talked to her since late Saturday night -- a conversation that I barely remember, and actually thought I had dreamed when I awoke Sunday -- I'm literally aching to hear her voice... aching to hold her hand, to wrap my arms around her and hug her. Each night, I fall asleep wishing she was next to me, arms wrapped tightly around a spare pillow; it is the only way I can fall asleep.

I'm scared. Scared of what is keeping her from calling. Scared of what she'll reveal when she returns.

Please send any spare positive vibes and feelings my way. I need all I can get.

How she makes me feel

Like I'm the luckiest guy on the planet.

Called me yesterday, international long distance be damned, during the day, and just chatted. Talked about how much she was missing me... talked about how much she wished I was there... talked about how things were going, hinted that the ex was being something of a douchebag... made me feel really, really great.

And then, late last night, called me again. She woke me up, but I could not have cared less about that; I was thrilled to hear her voice. Just repeated how much she loved me. She was drunk, and had been at the discotek, but "couldn't wait" to get back to the room and call me.

Just to tell me how much she loves me.

So, again, I'm walking on air. Sigh.

NP: Girl Inside My Head

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So... crazy IS in style

Who knew? Remember how I talked about having drinks with MC, the girl I met on New Years Eve that seemed really cool, but with whom I didn't see much (if any) future? And remember how I talked about how we were going to have drinks, and how it was going to be a disaster? And remember how I promised to get you tickets?

Admit one.

Holy shit, she's crazy. No, that's not strong enough. She's beyond crazy. She's overwhelmingly crazy. We met up at the Cherry Cricket, and I'm thinking, if all else fails, at least I'll get a damn good burger out of the deal. I apologize for disappearing (an SDW staple since I started being interested and then suddenly disinterested in women), we drink some, then eat some apps and go back to her place to watch a movie. I'm trying to keep it cool, not tip my hand, not give her any indication that I'm crazy about her, that I really want to date her... telling her all along that it's important that we take things slow, because I get freaked out easily, and just need to get comfortable at each stage of being with someone. She seemed cool, until we put the (shitty) movie on, and suddenly, she's climbing all the fuck over your boy. Just grabbin' and pullin' and strippin' and strippin' me... and 10 minutes later, she starts turning off lights, telling me it's time for bed.

Emergency.

I don't want to sleep with this girl, but I'm drinking and feeling pretty good and... you know, what's another notch in the old belt?

(Let me just pause right here: Ladies, I have mad, MAD respect for you. You women who respect yourself and do the right thing, keep your heads up and your legs closed, I respect and love you. This woman is not in your exclusive club. And MY thing is, I felt like I was being used too... that is a road that goes both ways. If she really wanted to schtuup me, even after the conversation we'd just had... I mean, isn't that on her? Or at least partially on her? At one point do I get to shed the "womanizer/mysogynist" label? Aren't women responsible for their own actions, too?)

We go upstairs to her bedroom. She's taking my clothes off like crazy, giving me all sorts of lines like "after 8:30, pants aren't allowed in the bedroom," and "take your shirt off, or it'll be all wrinkled." Lame stuff that, with the right delivery (read: mine) can actually get you somewhere.

Before I knew it, I'm down to my shorts and layin' on the bed, while she takes her clothes off. She's dancing to the music on her iTunes, but she has no rhythm, and it's decidedly... not... hot... at all... not even a little.

The rest of the night is just something of a blur. She's on top of me, she's dancing on top of me, she hops off of me to change the song or fuck around with her dogs, then she's back on top of me again. All in all, I felt really fucking uncomfortable.

I was not feeling it anymore.

I got up. Started putting on my clothes. And I bailed.

She was disappointed, but as the Conchords taught us, A Kiss is Not a Contract.


Just because you been explorin' my mouth doesn't mean you get to take an expedition further south.

I don't know what she did after I left, because I haven't called her or heard from her since that night. Based on the evening as a whole, I would guess that upon my exit she filled a bathtub with her own feces and rolled around with it.

Bitch is crazy.

Lesson learned: if a girl comes up to ME at a bar, and is suddenly and immediately interested, in ME, something is completely wrong with HER.

Other stuff: Maggie is still in the picture. She and I had a great weekend together in Denver, and she leaves Wednesday for a wedding in Mexico, where her friend from college is marrying the brother of an ex of hers. Yes, he'll be there. Fuck.

The 20 year old is still sniffing around. I had to lie to her about a family emergency to avoid hanging out with her this weekend. I need to end that. Immediately.

Rebecca (formerly Becky) is out of the picture completely. Almost had a meltdown Saturday night when heading to the Highlands in North Denver with Maggie, and we're turning into a parking lot, and... there's Rebecca (formerly Becky), walking right across where I'm trying to pull into this lot, and she looked into the car, and I swear to god she looked right at me... but didn't give anything away. I've tried to IM her once, and got no response. She's probably wicked pissed, and that's fine... it wouldn't work anyway. And I don't have time to be wasting evenings and money with women who are not going to be anything close to working out.

So if you're keeping track at home: Sam and MC - Off. Sam and Rebecca (formerly Becky) - Off. Sam and 20 year old - off. Sam and Maggie - On.

And hopeful.

Heh.

The fella over at Introducing Liston (I believe his name is, ah, er... Liston) found this gem. Check it out for a Wednesday chuckle.

Introducing Liston

One of these things is not like the other...

*Disclaimer: I'm drunk. Very drunk. It's 6:35 on a Tuesday evening and I'm hammered. Now, while this might lead you to wonder what got me here, let's not focus on that at the moment. The following stream of consciousness thought is brought to you by Vodka.*

first, why am I here? There has been one major shift in my life, and I wonder if it's affecting (effecting?) everything in my life. My band broke up. Truthfully? My band kicked me out. Band kicks out the lead singer. Does that really happen? Oh my, yes.

Losing the band, while it seems trivial to some, has affected (effected?) me greatly. I have no outlet. I have no distraction. From life. From everything. From job. From girlfriend. I have no way for me to really express myself, which I think is the biggest thing that I miss. You can see it, and it must be very transparent, every time I watch a movie or a show wherein someone is a creative person, writing music or lyrics or both... and I say, "Man, I wish I played piano/guitar/flute, and man, I wish I had a band." It's awful. I think that's where Maggie and I begin having our (numerous) problems. When she met me, I was the frontman (that's fancy-speak for a singer) for a mildly successful local band. Our second date was at one of our fucking shows, at the fucking Fox Theatre in fucking Boulder, for Fuck's sake! Was she impressed? OF COURSE she was fucking impressed. And now? Now, I have nothing to impress her with. And that's not self-deprication for the sake of self-deprication. This is fact: I am not the same person she met and fell in love with. I am responsible.

Now how awful is that?

Now, not only do I not have a band, but i haven't written a lyric in six fucking months. The last three songs I wrote were about Maggie, and now I feel so numb to the idea of writing that i can't do it. Not even on my blog, for the two people that actually read my blog. How awful is that?

THAT, my friends, THAT is awful.

So that's where I am.

Maggie Chronicles: we're not together. It pains me every waking moment, truthfully. This isn't a matter of being with "someone" as it has been with Lauren, and to a lesser extent, Jenny. This is a matter of being with HER, with MAGGIE, with the one that I'm fucking crazy about. I've been with others. I've seen others, kissed others. It's not the same. I don't know how to explain that. Here's the rundown:

Josie: The person I met when Maggie and I first started our "break." She's very nice, we have great conversations, she is attractive, smart, funny. Ultimately, we don't fit. Don't know why. A few kisses here and there. We did not have sex.

Rebecca (Becky): Went to high school with Becky (now Rebecca). Rebecca was my editor at the high school paper. Rebecca (then Becky) fired me from the paper and failed me for the class. We went out to drinks, got drunk, and ended up making out. I came over to her new house and played Cable Guy, setting up her television. We took part in some heavy petting. We did not have sex.

MC (name redacted because it is somewhat unique and will show up in a Google search if I include it here, and I'm looking to protect the innocent): Lovely girl, met her on new years. Maggie was in Texas, working for an old friend on his farm. Blah. Hit on me. Danced with me. Enjoyed my company. Gorgeous, funny, interesting, LOUD. Eats sushi. Has two dogs, one of whom snores (fucking pugs. Seriously. if you have to have your nasal passages snaked upon birth, you do not deserve to live. There, I said it.), but has large breasts and no interest in having children. So there's no long term potential. I will be seeing her for happy hour tomorrow. Should be a complete disaster; I'll get you tickets.

Kim: Young. Too young. WAY too young. What the fuck am I doing here? Am I just falling, grabbing on to any (large) breasts that I can grab on the way down? Am I desperate? She's fun to fool around with and fun to drink with (illegally -- sorry, everyone), but... fuck me, she's 20 years old! I'm going to be 30 before she's 21! Is this okay? At all? Probably not. Cancelled plans with her this evening because there's no fucking way that can happen. And also because the *real* love of my life called me and reminded me that there's a dinner in her boyfriend's honor tonight. Shoot me. In the balls.

So that's that. And there's still Maggie in the picture. So.

Fuck me.

And of course, I just watched "Forgetting Sarah Marshall," which made me think that A) perhaps Maggie tried forever to get me where she wanted me to be, and B) maybe Maggie is in fact the devil. Should be an interesting couple of months here.

Any insight you three readers could give me would be appreciated.

FINALLY!

On this most incredible of days...

In a time of much questioning, of much optimism...

When there is much uncertainty...

We are pleased to announce...

Sam Versus World's long-awaited return to the Blogosphere.

Have we had this "Hope" for "Change" before? Perhaps. But this time, we mean it.

We're putting our party pants on. And we're ready to rock.

Talkin' bout my g-g-generation

The generation that I'm in - Generation Y, if you want to call it that (and have me shoot myself in the balls!) - is an interesting group. Far from the "Greatest Generation" of WWII era veterans in a hopeful existence filled with tranquility and pink houses and suburbs and all the rest, we're a self-absorbed bunch of self-medicated-and-self-psychoanalyzed idiots, all speaking out loud like we're starring in our own John Cusack film, walking through the narrative of our daily lives like it has any gravity at all.

Not that i'm any better. I analyze every move I make 30 times before I make it, first checking with friends and select coworkers about the best course of action. We're afraid of our own shadow, scared to offend, or stand up, or... do anything on our own. Which seemingly runs counter to the very American idealism we tend to espouse.

We hate ourselves, pray we don't become like our parents, seek immediate answers to long-term problems (dating sites will be the downfall of this nation's relationships... believe it) and live in a culture which places a premium on replacing difficult parts of life, not fixing the problem. Hole in the dam? Buy a new dam! Car have a flat tire? Buy a new car! Problems with the wife? Match.com will give you 6 months at only $16 per! Find a new wife!

I'm just sick of it. Probably because I'm so wrapped in the same cloth that I so despise.

Sigh.

Birthdays, mortality, and The End

Forgive me a little self-indulgence, if you please.

I turned 29 today. As in, one year from 30. 9 from 20. 11 from 40. 21 from 50.

29, in all respects, should not be a "big deal" birthday (my list is as follows: 16, 21, 25, 26, 30, 40, 50). However, in my family, the DW men do not last beyond 60. They just don't.

So am I looking at my midlife crisis? This is the question I've been pondering all morning.

Perhaps it's best that I haven't heard "Happy Birthday" from many today. I'm having a lot of trouble seeing what's so "happy" about it.

The New Girl

What a mess.

Maggie and I are splitsville, as a result of her being unable or unwilling to take things to the next level. She knows she's making a mistake, knows that she shouldn't be running from this, but here we are. It's a difficult situation to be in, for sure. She says she still wants to end up with me, but for right now, while we're living in different cities and leading, essentially, different lives, she can't do the distance. And while I was initially very hurt by this, and while it still hurts to think about, the fact is that the distance was wearing on both of us in a major way.

So what do I do? Naturally, I call up a girl that I went to high school with, a girl that I reconnected with at our ten year reunion in December. I see what she's up to. We go out, first with her friends, then on our own, then again last night... and it's normal and fulfilling to have a great conversation with a great person over a great dinner, then follow it up with a very nice, sweet kiss at the end of the night when she drops me off at my apartment.

And we feel... empty.

It's the fire that we want. It's the fire that we crave. And if there is no spark, there can be no fire. Right? Or am I overthinking?

Probably overthinking, SDW.

I will see her again. This much I've already decided. And if something were to develop that got more serious, I would certainly be open to that idea. But...

The fire of Maggie cannot be denied. This is my worry. And as turbulent as our relationship was (is?), when I kissed Maggie I felt something. It's something so strong, something that I've never felt before, and something that cannot be easily replaced with conversation and mild interest.

I need that fire. And if it means being consumed by it in a relationship with Maggie, so be it.

The question is, am I required to feel bad that I'm not putting all of myself into this still-very-young whateverthehellitis I have with the new girl? Or should both of our expectations be tempered by the fact that we've just begun?

Becoming too big to manage

My thoughts and feelings are completely out of control.

My sleep schedule, along with my stomach, is in tatters.

If I'm not thinking about her, I'm not thinking.

On the one hand, she thanks me for pulling her near when she's pushing me away. I'm her shoulder to cry on when she needs to vent about work, or her mom, or her family. I'm her "rock," as she puts it.

On the other, I barely talked to her yesterday. Our only correspondence was through one instant message conversation, which lasted all of five minutes. When I asked her to call me last night, she said she didn't know if she could because she was going out with the girls. True to form, I got no call on the way out to meet the girls, and when I woke up with nightmares at 4am, and foolishly checked my phone, found that I'd gotten no call on her way home from being with the girls.

And the coup de gras: Friday night, the night we'd been planning to have together for Valentine's Day dinner? Canceled, due to a meeting at work. At 7pm. On a Friday night.

Ahem. Excuse me?

I don't know what's more insulting. The idea that I should just be okay with that, or the idea that I shouldn't be suspicious. I mean, would ANYONE not be suspicious?

All in all, it hurts me. It hurts me because I don't know what to believe anymore. I think there's someone else, someone who is taking up her time, whispering sweet nothings (those are MY sweet nothings, you douchenozzle!), and stealing my girl away from me.

And yet, she can tell me she loves me without issue... But the words aren't the thing, right? The feeling is the thing, right? And you can't fake it, right? And if she had any feeling at all for me, she wouldn't lie to me... Right?

I'm just feeling very alone, very betrayed, and very hurt. And to me, to call her on it and come away with nothing - to have her prove her meeting, her evening with the girls, et al - would be a tragic ending right out of Shakespeare.

Say nothing, and live a lie.

Say something, and end with nothing.

Say nothing, and end with nothing anyway.

Of the three, I'd choose the last. I know I'm a fool for doing so. Someone straighten me out. Please, please straighten me out.

Last train to Crazytown

I love her.

I really, really love her.

And yet, I can't get around the fights about inconsequential things that turn into so much more than they should.

We fight differently. I try to look at things very logically, and actually end up politicizing my responses (the "I never said that," "Never said it like that," variety), which pisses her off. She hits below the belt with some of her comments and, me being the delicate flower that I am, I wilt in the face of unfair criticism.

At first, these fights would crop up and I thought we just had to learn how to fight with one another. Now, I'm starting to think there's more to it than that.

What if I've been wrong this whole time? What if this wonderful woman who I think is great for me is not what I thought she was?

Doubting yourself is the toughest part of a situation like this. We've pressed on through fights before, and it's been okay, and I just wonder if I'm fooling myself. But why?

Is it her - and more accurately, us - that keeps me here? Or is it me, and my fear of being alone for the rest of my life?

To borrow from Rob Gordon, "Only people of a certain disposition are afraid of being alone for the rest of their lives at the age of 28. I am of that disposition."

The problem lies within. I feel like if we let go of what we have - something so strong, so passionate, so interesting and fun and great in bed - that we'll both regret it when we look back. And I've spent a ton of my life looking back in regret. I don't wish to add to that list.

SO, blog readers, all three of you: tell me what to do. Is this fixable? Is there a fix for this bridge?

To borrow from the Grammy-winning band Lazyface, "Is anything left?"

Answers should be in essay form.

Alright, you bastards

More blogs are coming, I swear to god. I've been crazy busy with some stuff (including the girl, which I'll update soon) and band (also to be updated).

In the meantime, here ya go, people of Bloggerlandville.

In-fat-u-a-tion

Me. Yep.

It's the little things that bring on infatuation. The unexpected messages on IM. The smiley faces in emails.

I cannot wait to see her again.



I know she's gonna leave my broken heart behind her
I dig what she's givin' though
I know she's gonna leave this broken man behind her
I dig what she's givin' though.

The Maggie Misadventure

She is terrific. She is fantastic. She is highly addictive. She is Maggie.


(My hair looks like feathers. Bloody hell, I stole this outfit from the Beatles during the Sgt. Pepper years.)

I thought that it was game over with Maggie. After talking a few times, we met for the first time, had sushi (in Fort Collins, and it was remarkably GOOD), talked a few more times.

Then Thanksgiving. Then complete radio silence. Phone calls went unanswered and unreturned. After the brilliant time we'd had together, I was shocked. Shocked and saddened.

I'd written her off as just someone who wasn't interested. Which is fine; frankly, I've been on the wrong end of that equation enough to A) be used to it, and B) not really get bent out of shape about it anymore. So there I was, square 1.

Then, last night... missed a call on my way home from watching the Broncos suck it up in another loss, and after getting home, checked the phone to find it was Maggie who'd called.

Now.

If I was a game player, I would not have called back. I would not have responded at all. I would have let the sleeping dog lie.

I called. She answered. We talked.

It was... terrific. Like a breath of air for a drowning man, I felt refreshed; reinvigorated.

And though I'm not getting my hopes up, though I've been down this road too many times to really believe that something could come of this... here I am.

Hopeful.

Holy. Fuck.

Watch the whole thing. Seriously.

Does it have a point? No. But I'm kind of under the weather and feel like I've now gotten my fever dream out of the way. All without the inconvenience of having to leave my job and go to sleep in my bed.

Sigh.

Anything Left?

We were in the studio last night, recording what we thought would be just one song (the ever-popular "Anything Left") for a radio contest we want to enter. Ended up recording four songs total, and actually working through most of three and got Anything Left almost perfect. All in all, a very successful undertaking.

We're still going to enter Anything Left for the radio contest, but I'm more than a little impressed with our work on "The Score," a rollickin' good time of a song that has just enough dirt to make it feel pretty grungy. A true, straight-ahead rock song, if I do say so myself.

At first, I wasn't convinced that we'd have a shot in this contest. After working with Jamie at Module Overload Studios - easily the best value in town as far as recording studios go - and working through a lot more than we were expecting and still staying on-budget, and hearing the clean, clear, delectable sounds that came out, I'm fully expecting delivery into the top 20. Anything Left is THAT GOOD.

Now I feel like an asshole for blowing my own horn, but... fuck it, it's true. I'll be sure to post if we do make the top-20 so y'all can vote for the song and try to get us in regular rotation on KTCL.

NP: Cake - Motorcade of Generosity

Mighty Mangina Monologue

One of the coolest things I've learned about are the little subsections of blogs that link to each other throughout the internet. Despite being on seemingly different topics, all of these seem to have one or two things in common, and though they get there in different ways, I've read some pretty awesomely terrific writing through these little communities.

One of the best, and I mean this, is BlogHer. A collection of bloggers from across the country (and around the world, I would imagine) who have two things in common: a vagina, and breasts. I guess, technically, that's three things that they have in common. (Note: I do not think they share the same vagina and breasts. That would make them one person. Or maybe lesbians, I think. And then I could no longer call them, "Them," as "they" would be a singular entity. And then they wouldn't need a community, because they'd all be right there, busying themselves with their shared vagina and breasts. I need a nap) ANYWAY, I think they're terrific; they're funny, smart, interesting, apparently drink a great deal of wine (witness Not a Girl, Not Yet a Wino in the links), and possess a certain amount of awesomeness incarnate with being really, really smarmy. I truly believe that A) Leslie, she of the Librarian Intelligence Agency, should be a member, and B) coming up with something as simple and descriptive as "BlogHer" is awesome.

So then, what would we call it if I wanted to start a blog community for men? BlogHim sounds lame (and a little gay, or religious, which is ironic).

My ideas:

PenisMightier (as in, "The Pen Is Mightier." Get it?)
Ball-log
Testiblog
Testostiblog

Your ideas in the comments. Together, we can make this shit happen.

A fan comes clean

Note: This bout of honesty comes due to the writings of one Dan Shanoff, who had a great blog post today about becoming a fan, and what really matters. Made me think. It is highly recommended reading, and is available HERE.

This is hard for me to admit, as by merely admitting what I'm about to admit, I will be admitting to lies that stretch back to my teens, at least, and maybe farther. Here goes.

My father was not a Red Sox fan.

Which means I didn't inherit my love of the Sox from my father. Didn't spend sun-drenched days in Fenway, watching the Sawx do battle in the middle of summer. My father wasn't from Worcester, Massachusetts, like I always claimed. We didn't have the wonderful father - son relationship, straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

Dad was from Scottsdale, Arizona.

His team was the Dodgers. The Los Angeles Dodgers.

Don't get me wrong: I love the Boston Red Sox. I do. But I didn't come by them in the usual ways.

My mother is the one responsible for my love of the Red Sox. It's true.

I never lived in Boston, or on the Eastern seaboard. I'm a Western US kind of kid. I can't imagine living in a place so small, so cramped, and without mountains (and with the big dig. Ugh). But when I was young (somewhere between the ages of 8 and 11, I believe), mom and I went out to Boston to see her college friend, her husband, and her son.

It was September.

The Sox were in contention.

And when we took the T down to Fenway, I was blown away.

Yawkey Way, full of people, with the smell of sausages and peanuts and popcorn and beer and baseball... the cheerful sounds of "Go SOX!" as you walked through the crowd. I knew then that I would always be a Red Sox fan.

And then I saw the inside of the stadium. My, that stadium. Fenway Park is the greatest ballpark on the face of the planet. It is baseball's cathedral. The size, the proximity of fan to player, the wall, all make it... well... the most special place on the planet to see a baseball game. You think that, at any minute, Ted Williams or Carl Yastrzemski or Jimmie Foxx is going to walk of the dugout to take a few cuts at the plate.

My life would never be the same again.

I brought home more merchandise than any 8-11 year old kid should be allowed. A Red Sox poster that featured the likes of Oil Can Boyd, Mike Greenwell, and the immortal Wade Boggs. A Sox hat. A tee shirt with "The Hunt for Red October" silk-screened on the front.

From that day forth, I was a Red Sox fan. And in spite of giving my dad all the credit for that choice, my mom is really who is responsible.

That said, it's tough to follow your team when you live 3000 miles away. With a 162 game season, it's damn near impossible. Remember, this was before DirecTV and the baseball package. The Sox became my "AL team."

My NL team? Why, the upstart Colorado Rockies, of course.

I'm a Denver guy. When we got pro baseball in Denver, it was a very exciting time. I finally made it to a game at Old Mile High, late in that first 1993 season. I don't remember much, except that I liked the uniforms, and I loved the team. These guys had come out of nowhere: Andres Galarraga, Dante Bichette, Joe Girardi... who were these guys?

Answer: they were the sign that Denver was finally moving beyond just a cowtown. They were a sign of progress. The National Pastime, in Denver! Pro ball! Major League City!

The Rockies fans set a record for attendance that year. More than 4 million people went through the turnstiles. We weren't very good, but we weren't supposed to be.

I've since kept my eye on the Rockies. I love going to the stadium downtown, and at one point actually worked at Coors Field. For my money, and I don't have much, there's nothing better than the baseball stadium on a sunny, summer day. Being bathed in sun with a great, upper deck view of the Rockies, enhanced by the view of the Rockies (and vice versa) has no equal, in my opinion.

Call it what you will. Am I a turncoat for rooting for the Rockies in this World Series? Maybe. But when someone asks from now on who I root for, it'll always start one way:

"I have two teams."

Brilliant!

I've been loving on the Coors Light coach commercials, where they splice footage of NFL coach press conferences with shots of guys (like me) drinking beer and asking smartass, smarmy questions (like me). They're awesome.

And many people have seen the video of the Oklahoma State football coach yelling at a columnist for being mean to one of "his" players. It was absurd, and kind of funny.

Now the two have been brought together.

Let us enjoy the enjoyment.