Man vs. Your Stupid Media-Fed Ma-Ca-Cah!

It has come to my attention that some people believe that Bear Grylls is an imposture, a fake, bogus and you know what, that really grinds my gears.

For those that don’t believe (this is Coldplay, wait, no), Bear Grylls is the host of “Man vs. Wild”, a program that runs on Discovery Communication’s Discovery Channel. The show launched in November of 2006 and was set to take the world by storm.

But before the show even came to fruition there was the man. Bear Grylls, born Edward Michael Grylls, a man that led an exciting life from growing up summiting the local hills in jolly-old-England to eventually joining the military.

He joined the British Army’s Special Forces and was later forced to end his career with the group when he was involved in a parachuting accident that left him sidelined for 18 months. It was during those 18 months that Grylls made the choice to attempt the impossibe, accomplish his childhood dream of summiting the highest mountain top in the world, Mount Everest.

At just 23-years-old, Grylls became the youngest U.K. born climber to reach the summit of Mount Everest (a record that has since been broken).

Grylls has paramotored over Angel Falls in Venezuela, he has circumnavigated the U.K on a personal watercraft and he has held a dinner party, tuxedo and all, at 25,000 feet hanging from a hot air balloon. All amazing feats that the common man would struggle to perform.

Back to the show – “Man vs. Wild” is a show hosted by Grylls that focuses on learning how to survive in different situations with limited supplies. Now keep in mind this is a television show. It is created and meant for entertainment. So when Grylls is dropped in to the middle of the Sahara Desert or the deep wilderness of the Florida Swamps why do we, the viewer, care what happens at the end of the night?

For those that do not know, Grylls was heavily criticized by the media when it was revealed that while filming an episode of “Man vs. Wild” the conditions became to harsh for a man lost in the wilderness to endure and so Grylls was airlifted to a local hotel for the night.

Yes, the idea of the show is to survive, but people, look at Grylls’ history. Do you think that if he really was out there all night he could have survived, of course he could of. But this is television, he is on this show to entertain the viewer.

Since this discovery the producers and Grylls have been forced to change the set-up of the show. Now Grylls is dropped into remote locations where he is met with a person that is familiar with the area and knows a great deal of information about the do’s and don’ts of that specific region. Why I ask? Why?

This show was fantastic, so fantastic that four college students would wait until nine o’clock on a Friday night to start their weekend festivities just so they could see what “Bear” was up to and where he was at in the world. No more though, you people (yeah, I said “you people”) have ruined “Man vs. Wild.”

What the public needs to understand is that television is around for ENTERTAINMENT! Grylls use to be extremely entertaining, lately I have found it hard to watch the show because of the over-acknowledgments that are made of Grylls surroundings and every little detail to what he has done to “survive” just to please you nay-sayers. You people make me sick – and don’t you dare compare Bear Grylls to Survivorman. I don’t buy that for one second, so you stick your sorrys in a sack because I don’t want to hear it.

Come back Bear, we miss you (Hell, I need you. I'm a mess without you. I miss you so damn much. I miss being with you, I miss being near you. I miss your laugh. I miss your scent; I miss your musk. When this all gets sorted out, I think you and me should get an apartment together..)

- Tim Keating

P.S. I'll always remember what you taught me about glaciers and vitamins.

A NBGin' EXCLUSIVE!

We have done it, it is unbelievable (We here at NBGin' are speechless, without speech). American soccer player Chris Rolfe, starting forward for the Chicago Fire of the MLS agreed to sit down with NBGin's Tim Keating. The following text is what ensued.

Chris Rolfe was never the biggest kid on the soccer field.

He was also never highly scouted by big name universities. For him, soccer was a passion, not a career.

When he entered the University of Dayton in the fall of 2001, he was simply another undergraduate who happened to play for the soccer team. Eventually that would all change. These days Rolfe is a starting forward for Major League Soccer's Chicago Fire.

Rolfe, who was raised in Kettering, began playing soccer at the local YMCA at the age of 7. As most little brothers do, Rolfe wanted to follow in the footsteps of his older brother who played soccer. From a very young age he knew that he was talented.

"I think I was always quick and good with my feet," Rolfe said. "For the most part, technically, I've always been pretty good."

Rolfe's skill became apparent when he reached the high school level. He attended Fairmont High School in Kettering, where he recorded 30 goals and 72 points as a junior. He finished his high school career with 73 goals, and First Team All-Area, Player of the Year and First Team All-Mideast honors.

But even with impressive high school statistics, Rolfe was not heavily recruited.

"Wright State was interested, Cincinnati, Dayton and a couple of schools out on the east coast that were smaller were interested," Rolfe said. "So really when Dayton came and said that they would give me a scholarship, it was a pretty easy choice for me."

His future set for the time being, Rolfe attended the University of Dayton with the hopes of getting some playing time during regular season games. To his surprise, when traveling with the team to their first preseason tournament in Bowling Green, he found himself in the starting eleven. Rolfe went on to start in 19 of 20 games that year for the Flyers and finished the season with five goals and eight assists.

Rolfe spent a majority of his last two years at UD with nagging injuries, but still managed to finish sixth all-time in UD history with 31 goals and 25 assists. Throughout Rolfe's time at UD, he had planned on graduating and spending his days behind a desk in a financially focused environment.

But that all seemed to change when it came time for the 2005 MLS Superdraft.

On Jan. 14, 2005, during his senior year at UD, Rolfe was taken in the third round of the draft by the Chicago Fire with the 29th pick overall.

"Initially when I saw my name pop up it was excitement and then it quickly turned to some type of anxiety because I quickly had to change my mindset and figure [out] what I was going to do about school," Rolfe said.


Rolfe excelled in his rookie campaign, eliciting nominations for Rookie of the Year by tallying eight goals and five assists in 29 appearances. He started 21 games that season.

Rolfe has continued to play well in the MLS. He was selected as the Sept. 25 player of the game for his two-goal performance against the Los Angeles Galaxy broadcast as part of ESPN2's MLS Game of the Week.

When asked about the best part of being a professional athlete - "Other than being done with work around 12:00 in the afternoon every day?" he joked - Rolfe said it gave his friends a reason to get together and come watch him play.

Rolfe, who has represented his country in four international appearances with the U.S. National Team, stated that in the future he would consider playing in a league a step above the MLS if the right opportunity presented itself.

As a competitor, he would jump at the chance.

"I want to push myself as hard as I can and see how far I can take this," he said. "You know, [see] how good I am.”

Davy

“God, what does it want now?”

Its name was Davy—yes, after Davy Jones, the immortal piece of man candy God made so unbearably adorable, middle-aged women would still tack his poster above their bed if their husbands didn’t beat enough sense into them. Davy—that thing now, not the leader of a cheap knockoff band who enjoyed more sloppy seconds than Bob Crane—sat several feet from my then twitching right foot, my slipper the only cushion it would feel when I punted it over our—my— breakfast nook.

“Cihh…cihh…cihh…cihh…cihh,” it panted gently, over and over and over again from the back of its throat, pink tongue squirting through black lips and crooked yellow teeth. Each small exhalation assaulted my nostrils in rogue clouds of humid, day-old Eukanuba Small Breed. You wouldn’t think something so blindingly repugnant could come from an unholy rat so small. Its beady black eyes never once left my face, not even to shoot the most temperamental of glances toward the brown sugar-cinnamon Pop-Tart I shoveled down my gullet, brown thimble of a tail twitching in sharp, incessant spasms.

“Cihh…cihh…cihh…cihh…cihh.”

The fuzzy parasite’s grease spot looked particularly shiny this radiant morning. It had some sort of nasty skin condition on its back Janice dropped two-hundred bucks a month to take care of. Yet, I couldn’t remember a single time she came with me to the ER when the poison ivy growing in her garden puffed my face worse than a fourteen-round beating from Apollo Creed.

I ran my nails hard through the ten-day stubble growing on my chin, and gave Satan’s wicked brethren one last narrow-eyed glare before going back to my coffee and newspaper. She couldn’t stand when I slurped my coffee. We used to laugh about it, like how I made fun of her for snoring when she drank too much, but she eventually glared at me like every swig was a crack against her mother’s girth.

“Cihh…cihh…cihh…cihh…cihh.”

I asked her for a kid, she brings home a dog. That’s a pretty fair trade if you ask me. Not a slobbery, jaunty yellow lab that likes to wrestle and play fetch and can be walked without fear it’ll fall into the sewer, but a goddamn Yorkie, for Christ’s sake. One that broke its leg jumping down from our two-foot-tall ottoman. One that shits tootsie roll-sized turds impossible to find come poop pick-up day. One that only pisses on my side of the bed, and hides under the couch for at least an hour when you turn on the blender.

I pulled the note from the front pocket of Janice’s robe, its fuzzy turquoise frills keeping me warm ever since they shut off the heat. What kind of a name is Spencer, anyway? Every time I hear it I think of this spoiled only-child who lived on my court when I was ten. Everything he wanted in the world, his parents got him: Matchbox cars, dirtbikes, birthday parties behind the home dugout at Wrigley. He also wanted my Mickey Mouse wallet, and, of course, he got that too, snatched it right out of my room, the little shit. Luckily, I was ten and only had two dollars and a piece of gum to my name, but it was the principle of the thing.

“Cihh…cihh…cihh…cihh…cihh.”

Brown biscotti colored. She didn’t want a brown Yorkie. She wanted the brown biscotti one. It was sad. She treated it, a living thing, like some kind of disposable fashion accessory; of course, it had to match everything else perfectly. Her obnoxiously large purse was white leather, purchased with the store credit she earned when she returned the sharp Coach bag I got her for her birthday.

“Oh. Thanks, but it’s a little too big,” she said, returning home three hours later with an even bigger bag (and poochie, as always) in tow.

I always hated the banquets. She dressed me up in some tux she had shipped in from New York, or Paris, or San Francisco for the evening, clothing I’d never even been blessed with laying my eyes on before I was told to wear it. She paraded me around, the starched shirts getting stiffer every year, until she was through with me, on to some geriatric with a country club membership and a 501K. She always held a glass of champagne or white wine when she danced, always smiling, youthful curls bouncing as some wrinkled hand spun her round and round and round…

“Cihh…cihh…cihh…cihh…cihh.”

I wondered what Janice was doing. Spencer probably had a nice car, a convertible even. I could see the two of them driving down the Pacific Coastal Highway on a sunny day, the wind blowing her blonde curly locks wildly through the air like some sort of beautiful sea anemone during high tide, Spencer probably sporting some tan, botoxed face accessorized with the kind of glasses I knew I could never make work.

I reached my hand down and patted Davy’s head. He stopped panting and stretched out his neck to meet my fingers. His eyes closed in the kind of intoxicating bliss dogs must feel when you scratch them behind the ears.

“You’re all right, aren’t you,” I said.

This One Goes Out to the One I Love

This blog will describe and explain why I love:

1. America
2. Frankie Hejduk
3. Soccer

Hey! Meathead! Don't close the blog, yeah I said I love soccer. But before you go and make your remarks about how soccer players put more time into styling their hair then they do playing the game - read what I have to say, you might come away with a greater respect for a few individual players, such as Columbus' Frankie Hejduk.

Okay - where to start, you see in soccer, there are two teams and when one player on one team does something wrong he can earn what we call a "yellow card." Now say that same player does another bad thing in that very same game, earning himself a second yellow card - stay with me on this one - two yellow cards equal one red card (carry the two, yeah, one red card).

When a player earns himself a red card he is asked to leave the field (or "pitch" for you soccer hooligans out there). Therefore his team is forced to play the rest of the game a man down.

But wait! There's more, once a player has acquired a red card they are forced to sit out the next game - here's where things get allll ccccrraaaaa-zyyyy - in soccer, that's it. Leave the current game and sit out the next. There's no league discipline or anything like that and as a soccer player you do not sit in the press box like you would if you played other sports such as football or basketball.

This is where the love for America and Frankie Hejduk come into play. (Spoiler Alert! if you want to know just what the hell I am getting at, check out this link! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=69xtzT4dm88 )

What does Frankie Hejduk do for his game off? Word on the street is that Hejduk swung by the local Buffalo Wild Wings to have a drink before driving down Crew Stadium to do what?

- now is where you click the link! -

To drink and pregame with the fans. Only in America could you see this happening. But Tim, what about in England - soccer or futbol is huge over there - first of all, shut up and sit down, you will speak only when spoken to. Secondly, NOT BLOODY LIKELY! you will not see this happening anywhere except America. I mean come on, click the link! That's not even the only you tube video of Frankie kicking it with the fans!

Any meatheads left out there? Now I don't plan on changing your mind because after all you are meatheads and you probably already left to go lift weights and get ripped but come on (like Peter Griffin, come onnnnnnnnnnnn) give soccer a chance. When you think of soccer don't picture guys with gel in their hair or players falling to the ground with just a little nudge, think of Frankie Hejduk. Who wouldn't want to hang out with one of the stars before the game. I mean Hejduk was selected to this years all-star team so it's not like he is some nobody that only Columbus fans would recognize.

Bottom Line: Let Columbus sports set the stage, again. We know how to do it. Amateurs? maybe when it comes to Ohio State, but who already has the Supporters Shield locked up with two weeks to play in the season?

For the meatheads still reading, the blog is over - thank you for reading.

God bless the athletes like Frankie Hejduk.

Death by Salad Bar

Normally, I'm a pretty agreeable fellow. I'm pretty laid back and it takes quite a lot to get me angry. That is, unless you're stupid. But other than that, I really don't get mad often.

Today, however, proved to be an exception to the rule.

There are a few foods in this world that, no matter how full you are, you always have room for: licorice, ice cream and jello. (Nick might have a slightly longer list that may even include anything left on anyone else's plate within a three-table radius). But for me, it's really only those three. These items, not coincidentally, are often served as desserts. That being said, after feasting at the all-you-can-eat cafeteria here at school, I wanted some dessert. I was decently full ("That buffet is pretty robust") but still wanted something to top off the meal.

I hate black licorice, and I don't eat ice cream often, so my natural inclination points me in the direction of jello. I love everything about jello. I love jello jigglers. I love jello/fruit salads. I love jello molds. I love jello shots. I love their catchy commercials, and I sure as hell love Bill Cosby. Jello, to me, has no down side...or so I thought.

I got up to the salad bar and went right for the jello. Today was a great day. Red Jello! Actually, it was a great day until I witnessed the massacre that happened in the jello container. It was a mess. There was not one item offered at the salad bar that wasn't in the jello bowl. It was a melting pot of crap. Yellow hard-boiled egg yolks, purple egg chunks (beets maybe?), broccoli branches, lettuce pieces, crunchy stick things, croutons and black olives all equally infected this otherwise pristine container of red jello. It was a meeting of the salad bar item minds, with horrific results.

I didn't dare touch it. The pure and direct disrespect of all the other salad-bar goers remains one of the most heinous things I have ever seen. I don't ask for much, but I do ask that you RESPECT THE JELLO. Because, as the saying goes..."J-E-L-L-O, it's alive"...that is, until you kill it.

I Got Your Waldo Right Here.

Dearest Tim,

While the tone was decidedly negative, I appreciate you taking the time to write those letters. I do not want to give you the satisfaction of a irrational, emotionally-charged response. So I won't. Instead, I will take the high road (a road I frequent in my everyday life, and a road it seems you have yet to find) and point out a few things that might make you appreciate a celebrity like myself for who I am instead of degrading and attempting to change everything about me. Your ad hominem attacks serve no purpose. It seems to me that you may be displacing your anger, but that's for you to figure out. For now I offer this response:

First of all, in you're second letter you mentioned that you assumed I wanted an apology. Wrong. I deserve an apology. I am the subject of countless books, pleasing children around the world. Waldo knows no language. I'm like music. I'm in more countries than McDonald's. I am everywhere.

I am everywhere, and nowhere at the same time. That's the beauty. There are still pages in my books that I cannot be found (and rest assured - I'm there, just hidden). I am figuratively nowhere and literally everywhere. Wrap your head around that.

As for my wardrobe you so unnecessarily attacked, please completely evaluate yourself before judging others. If I'm not mistaken, your favorite zip-up hoodie happens to be striped, does it not? The same hoodie you got for Christmas this past December and wore the rest of the day. Ya, didn't think I'd do my homework did ya? I'm everywhere. Don't forget it.

Besides, there are great people in American history that have worn the same outfit everyday. Doug Funnie sound familar? He owns the green sweater vest. My red stripes and blue pants are my trademark. You should wear the same thing one day and see how many people call you by my name. I'll set the over-under at 36.

What is it the kids say these days? Don't hate the player...hate the game? Ya, that. It seems to me you may be jealous of my fame, and are simply taking that jealously and turning it into blind rage against me personally. It's ok. I understand. There can't be too many books with your goofy grin on the cover. It must be tough. No one is taking time out of their day to continually look for you ? That's got to be hard. I can't even imagine what that's like.

Oh, and you're supposed to be this big music fan? Some fan you are. An Outkast reference? Really? What is this - 2003? Get current my man. I'd like to say you're better than that, but I'm not sure.

So how about you stop taking time out of your life to senselessly attack mine? Now, at least, you know how it might feel. I may look like a friendly, stripe-wearing, French-seeming, non combative vagrant, but I assure you; I can bite back. You just woke a sleeping giant. You have no idea what you mess with. This is nothing.

I eat pieces of crap like you for breakfast (yes, I eat pieces of crap for breakfast...you're so predictable).

So don't mess with the best, or you'll end up as meaningless extra on my pages like the rest.

Savy?

Your friend (and friend to millions around the world):
Waldo

p.s. I am fluent in English, French, Portugese, Mandarin, Japanese and the native tounge of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Any questions?

An Open Letter to the College Students of America

It’s a dark time at the University of Dayton.

Ghetto basements are locked. Stray bullets are fired into random homes. An evil Nazi dictator is our vice president for student development.

Many UD students have begun taking matters into their own hands. Flyer News, for instance, has received dozens of letters to the editor shedding light on these weighty issues. Multiple public forums have been held allowing students to debate and discuss plausible solutions that would not only make our campus community safer, but could even improve the quality of life in poverty stricken neighborhoods all over America.

I am writing to you, young adults of this nation, your heads filled with dreams of what the world could one day become, because I also have a solution. A credible idea that, if implemented correctly, could change the way this university, and potentially the world, operates.

Pay close attention. Flaming bags of dog poop.

Consider this: Food prices have skyrocketed this year at UD’s dining halls. Students are being taken for everything they’re worth. Why not track down the head of dining services (Kenneth J. Cosgrove, 346 Dorothy Lane Road, Oakwood, OH, 45469), grab a nice durable paper bag—recycled, preferably (We can’t change the future without any trees!)—scope out several nice dog droppings (Keep in mind that dried canine poop burns longer and elicits a much more potent fragrance. I recommend storing a handful or two in a shoe box under your bed to age properly in case of emergencies.), and engulf it in flames directly on the gentlemen or madam’s porch.

Before ringing the doorbell, it is absolutely essential that one leaves a note explaining one’s motives. Change cannot occur if the wrongdoer is not aware of his or her injustices. For this example, something along the lines of “Hey man, that’s seriously not cool about the food. You’re mean and you don’t do your job so good. I hate you,” would be absolutely perfect for a situation of such magnitude.

Do not be alarmed when a carton of milk only costs a nickel the next morning. Change will be swift, and terror will spread to evildoers.

In sum, many of you know that I coined the phrase “Some people see things as they are and say why. I dream of things that never were and say why not?” The same is true of what this proposition hopes to accomplish. Remember these words when your school’s semester exam study days are stolen from you, or when you read about starving children in Africa, or when your girlfriend dumps you because you just so happen to like the way her underwear shapes your junk.

Always remember: Freedom is just a flaming poop bag away.

Waldo: ughh...

Dearest Waldo,

In the words of Outkast: "I'm sorry Miss Jackson (insert Waldo), I am for real", I don't know what happened the other day but I want you to know that I may of overreacted..

This is not an apology.. thats exactly what you want, so if that's what you're looking for your not gonna get it.. but this is just a note to say "hey douchebag, I may of overreacted and I feel somewhat (and when I say somewhat I mean barely) bad about the whole situation."

I think it's best if we just give it up all together.. you know maybe try a new profession.. I can't keep tabs on you all the time - you need to relax for awhile, maybe go on a vacation? but seriously man, you have GOT to give up the whole traveling hitch hiker vibe.. times are changing - shit like that just doesn't happen anymore. Kids don't give two shits about finding the guy in brightly striped clothing, they would rather watch the Backyardigans, and frankly so would I. (Your back yard friends the backyardigans)

So take this as a peaceful request to take a flugging break (yeah I said flugging, pretty serious.), just stop for awhile. Maybe try golf? I have a friend that hated golf for the first 20 years of his life, gave it a try, loves it now. You seriously need to find a hobby, so start there.

Savy?

Hasta luego (How about that? Maybe try learning a new language and going the hell away?)

Take off the Hat

When I meet someone for the first time that's wearing a city-specific sports hat, I always ask the same question:

"So you're from ________?" (Fill in city name represented)

Maybe it's a poor assumption on my part, but more often than not they aren't from the city they choose to wear on their head. My favorite are the Boston Red Sox fans. I recently met a kid from Nebraska. NEBRASKA. He, of course, was wearing a Red Sox hat.

If you really want to see someone squirm, start off encounters of this sort with the same question. The other person feels their alligances being put into question, and they don't know how to explain. Which is good, because I absolutely do not want to hear an explanation. I don't care why you're wearing that Yankee hat. I don't care if your best friend's cousin lives in New York City and you spent a summer there in '92 and went to multiple Yankee games. I DO NOT CARE. You don't have to justify your choice of head gear to me.

I understand that there are those that simply like the look of a team's logo or colors, and I understand that it's just a hat, but lets get real. If you feel like you have to DEFEND your choice of hats then you have bigger problems to deal with. Wear what you want. But don't waste my time explaining how you developed an unlikely alliance to the best teams in any given sport. There aren't Texas Ranger fans in Columbus, OH. (Or are there?) But I'm fairly certain the amount of Yankee and Redsox hats out number the Blue Jacket fans in that city.

Bottom Line: Wear what you want. But be prepared to be asked if you actually hail from the city you chose to put on your head. And if you are asked, please don't defend your choice. No one cares. If you can accept the inevitable question and realize no defense is needed, then do what you want...if not - TAKE OFF THE HAT.

Waldo. what the hell?

Hey Waldo - who the hell are you? I hate to sound like an old grouch but why the hell am I looking for you, I don't even know you.. You've never called on a weeknight to be like "Hey, what's up man? you up for shooting the breeze tonight?" You never invited me over to "vent".. what the hell bra - you know what, it's time to take a stand, i'm not falling for it anymore - come to think of it, I don't even want to hang out with you.. what's with the french-travelers get up son? Hey - heres an idea.. try a different shirt or something.. you know maybe mix it up a bit.. asshole..

PS. I will never look for you ever again, don't bother trying to get me back..

sidenote: maybe try staying in one place for more than one page.. you know maybe settle down with a wife and a family, unless your not into that (not that theres anything wrong with that..).

Love Always,
Tim Keating