Grood.com

To whom it may concern:

Hi, my name is Doug Dixon. I’ve attended somewhere in the neighborhood of 125-150 Dodgers games since moving to Los Angeles in 2005 which translates, estimating conservatively, to just a shade below 30 games per season. I bleed blue, at least in a figurative way. Throughout those four and a half years I have amassed quite a collection of bobbleheads, seen in the picture I recently posted on Twitter (http://yfrog.com/ne1mqj). It’s quite the conversation starter and I feel it really ties my living room together.

I attended last Tuesday’s game against the Giants, now commonly referred to as the “Mattingly game.” As you know, it was also James Loney bobblehead night. You can probably guess that I was more than excited to pick up a Loney bobblehead or as I like to refer to as “Lil Loney.” Unfortunately, I opened the box for the bobblehead when I got home to discover, much to my horror, that Lil Loney’s leg had been broken in several places. As you can see in this photo I posted on Twitter (http://yfrog.com/3ujf2xj), it looks like Lil Loney might have taken a bit of a spill on his way to me.

Is there any way I could get a replacement for Lil Loney? It would mean a lot to me and my ball club which, as you can see in the team photo, is sorely lacking a quality first baseman. I am more than willing to cover the retail price and shipping for a replacement Lil Loney if need be.

Thank you for your consideration, and Go Blue!

So, there I was this morning, sitting at my desk, staring at a blinking cursor, struggling with coming up with something to write about. Would I write about the series finale of Lost, a show I had not seen more than ten seconds of? The oil spill? The NBA Playoffs? Such decisions! You see? This is the madness which dictates my life.

I went home for lunch, dejected with myself and the travesty that I had become. I turned the corner of my street, asking myself over and over “What am I doing with my life?” Then I got to my apartment building and right in front, I saw this…

Sometimes, you wander the world trying to find inspiration. And sometimes, inspiration finds you. This here, ladies and gents, is the woman of my dreams. On paper, at least. She’s wearing high heels but she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty or show a little skin. And just in case you were wondering if what exactly is covering her arms, those are tattoos. Lots of them. All over her body, actually.

It’s Earth Day, you say? FUCK YOU, IT’S DRAFT DAY! YOU HEAR THAT?! IT’S DRAFT DAY!

Pardon the all caps, but could anything in sports possibly get overhyped and blown out of proportion more than the NFL Draft? I suppose the Super Bowl gets more hype but, c’mon, it’s the Super Bowl. It has the word Super in it.

The draft, all it is is a bunch of 20-year-olds walking up to the stage and posing with Roger Goodell for three days. Three days of this shit. Wow, catch the excitement. And I have hordes of friends who will be glued to their TVs. Why? All the draft is is speculation. So what if Sam Bradford is the #1 pick? That doesn’t mean he’ll be any good nor does it mean his team will be any better. Historically, the NFL Draft has been riddled with busts. Ryan Leaf and Tony Mandarich, anybody? Bueller?

Speaking of busts, I was looking for something to do this Saturday in lieu of watching THE FUCKING DRAFT!!! and I came upon The Grilled Cheese Invitational. It sounds like a great idea but here’s the catch: the $10 admission only gets you in. You still have to buy the sandwiches once you’re there. So basically, you’re paying ten bucks to stand in a long line with a bunch of assholes for a grilled cheese sandwich. No thanks.

Another day, another mothereffing earthquake. If we get one more of these, I may pack my bags and head back to Oklahoma where people are safe from danger (except for tornadoes, meth addicts & nothing to do). Want to hear my exciting account of the earthquake? Well, buckle the fuck up, brother!

I was sitting in my living room with my laptop and noticed the chandelier & windows blinds were swaying back and forth. At first, I just dismissed it as the wind. My roommate and I routinely leave all of our windows open so we can enjoy that cool Southern California breeze which brings with it the fresh scent of lilac and jasmine and love. But then, I realized all the windows were closed. Did you read that? ALL THE WINDOWS WERE CLOSED!!!

I then did what I do with every earthquake I’ve felt. I sat there debating whether or not to get up and do anything and by the time I decided to do something, which was go stand by the door of my apartment (for some reason), the earthquake was done. I was left feeling a little bit nauseous after the fact, too. True story.

Speaking of exciting true stories, here’s a few from today that I found to be neat:

Space shuttle Discovery launches for some reason. If someone can give me one good reason why we still have NASA, I’m all ears. Actually, keep your damned whiny liberal stance to yourself, hippy boy.

Emmit Smith’s family tree has slaves in it. In equally shocking news, I brushed my teeth this morning. That was the only comment I could make about this story without coming across as a complete racist.

Ugh, Jeez Louise. Earthquakes suck, plain and simple. We had a rolling 4.4 at 4:04 this morning ¹ and it just plain sucked. It was the suckiest suck that ever sucked.

I woke up at 4:02 to take my usual middle of the night tinkle ² and was back in bed about to get fast asleep and dreaming about snorkling with Werewolf Abraham Lincoln over the Sahara when that mothersucker hit. My hound, Kaylee, barked and jumped off the bed while I assumed my usual earthquake-in-bed pose: one foot on the ground, frozen like a scared little girl, wondering Is this the big one? ³

Earthquakes are the one risk about living in Southern California that I simply cannot defend. People will say “There’s a lot of foreigners and minorities there.” Yeah, so what? That’s how the real world works. And LA’s so big you don’t really notice. “There’s a lot of pollution.” There’s a lot of pollution in every city, big boy. “The state’s going broke.” I can still get high. “You have earthquakes.” Yeah, well… shit. I got nothing.

I was walking alongside a tourist couple on my way to work from my lunch break and we walked past a group of drifters and one of the women¹ asked us all for change.

The two tourists stopped and started digging through their pockets because they’re idiots but I kept on walking because I in fact did not have change and because, well, I typically don’t give money to homeless people. It’s not because they’re homeless and I despise them, it’s just that I don’t like giving money to strangers. Stranger Danger!²

The tourists realized they didn’t have any money and apologized to the drifter lady³ who then said to them, “At least you looked through your pockets unlike this guy,” to which she was referring to me.

And usually, when someone takes an underserving, unexpected shot at me like that, I react negatively. By that, I don’t mean I get angry or anything. No, I react negatively as in I’m usually tongue tied and can’t come up with a substantial comeback until I’m driving home. But, this was not one of those usual moments, my friends.

I quickly snapped back at the drifter lady,⁴ “I didn’t check my pockets because I know nothing is in them because I am financially responsible, unlike you.”

See what I did there? I demonstrated in a tongue-in-cheek self-deprecating way that I was also broke and that I knew it, and I also shoved it back in her face like Shaq against a kid in a wheelchair. That’s known in the industry as a twofer, party people.