Unemployment Filler

As of the moment this post hits the pixelverse, I am no longer among the employed. The rest of you, keep on:

Forgot this classic:

Assignment Desk

I very much appreciated the plentifold suggestions Whit offered to help me figure out what to do with my time over the next several months. I plan to even do some of them - I do love a good haiku, after all. And I come here today with both a promise and a request.

The promise first: I intend to be a content machine around these parts. It'll be a disappointing week for me if I can't crank out at least five days worth of posts. A majority of those will be filler, obvs, but I hope to tackle a few meaty topics. 

And the request: assign me some shit, y'all. Gimme some writing prompts. Send me out into the (virtual) world to do some research and report back. Challenge me. I'll repay you with some tossed-off crap, mostly. 

To get your juices flowing, here are several topics I intend to weigh in on:

• 2022 Men's World Cup preview (duh)
• My favorite footballers (also probably duh)
• Election fuckery
• My progress in completing my kids' book
• A theory of the future of digital identity (it's a scorcher)
• Recommendations for streaming programs (watching Billy Corben's "God Forbid: The Sex Scandal That Brought Down a Dynasty" this evening)
• Podcasting! 
• Wrenball!
• A recounting of my quest to play soccer until I'm 60 and the various injuries that have resulted
• All the Gheorghasbords the market can handle
• Several of the Twelve Days of Gheorgemas
• And so much more!

Get at me, Gheorghies!

Wisdom of the Crowd

Last night at the Second Annual Loudoun Soccer Ball (Soccer Ball, get it?), abetted by copious amounts of alcohol, I spent way too much money on the auction item described in the video below:



Now, to figure out what to do with it. I could have Rog and Davo fete my daughter's soccer team. Or they could record a G:TB theme. Maybe I go selfish, and have them tout me as a generous and remarkable human being. Or do a shoutout to TR's friend who hates them.

I've got options. What Would GTB Do?

Silver Linings Playbook

There are a lot of reasons why crossing another number off of life's tally sheet might be considered a negative. I'm noticeably more gray at the temples now than I was at this time last year, for example. The hangovers hurt more than they used to. My God, do they. And let's not kid ourself - every additional numeral represents that much additional sand that's fallen through the aperture into the wrong half of the hourglass.

But in my case, at least this year, there's one substantial advantage to tacking on one more number.

As I assume most of you do, I associate each year of my life with the uniform number worn by an athlete, famous or just important to me. 33 was awesome, because Larry Bird. (I had a daughter that year, too, which was pretty cool, too, I guess.) I'm really looking forward to 77, for obvious reasons.

But 44 is so much better than 43. Dennis Eckersley's not bad, and he played for the Red Sox. And Richard Petty is The King. Brad Daugherty wore the digits in his honor. My man Darren Sproles carried 43, too. The pickings are slim for that prime number, though.

44, on the other hand, represents royalty. Hank Aaron, Reggie Jackson, Jim Brown, and George Gervin wore double fours. So did Willie McCovey, Chris Pronger, and Dan Issel. Mr. NBA himself, Jerry Brown, wore 44. Pistol Pete, too. Nolan Ryan threw a no-hitter when he was 44.

Intermission: Here's an awesome video of Gervin and Maravich playing a televised game of H-O-R-S-E. Ignore Pete's number 7 - he wished he were wearing his favorite digits:



Closer to home for me, Orlando Cabrera donned 44 when the Red Sox broke the curse in 2004. It was Danny Ainge's number when I was a huge Celtics fan as a kid - he won a pair of championships in that jersey. POTUS 44, too, suits me just fine.

There's a guy, though, that ends this discussion, even given the greats that have worn number 44. Clarence, I'm quite certain, grasped this punch line about five paragraphs ago, Sandy baby.

44 is the baddest ass of all years, because of this guy:

May my 44th year be filled with a fraction of the spirit, camaraderie, and joie de vivre that characterizes Riggo's time on Earth. And in those too-often moments when you catch me worrying about shit that's far too petty, may you call me on it, Riggo-style.