While attempting to write this column over the last few years, I've taken great lengths to make sure I don't repeat subjects with frequency. One can only assume a weekly column about Tony Coit and myself hitting on cute seniors while freshman would've been as short lived as our success in doing so.
The pizza delivery driver had just left the tractor when the fear hit me. And yes, you read correctly. Kudos to Jack's Pizza Cafe and greatest driver ever Mike Garibay, for having the wisdom to realize people south of Woodward Avenue also enjoy a large pepperoni now and then. (Wait, that sounded terrible – but is a wonderful lead into where we are headed)
Its Thursday morning 4:30 a.m. and I'm up writing what should be a sweet schmaltzy piece about how much we all love our mothers. But as is often the case for Manteca to a T, we are forced to deal with a pressing social issue that has been permeating my thoughts for the past five days: Rude and incompetent convenience store clerks.
We are less than a quarter of the way through 2016, and the world of music has seen more than its fair share of tragedy – Prince, David Bowie, Merle Haggard, Glenn Frey etc. – have all made their way to the big concert stage in the sky. The word "tragedy" is probably a bit of an overstatement. People of note die every day. Veterans, actors, scientists, athletes, inventors. But when a musician dies, we are instantaneously allowed to reminisce and universally mourn through their musical legacy. Music is, and will always be, that tangible intangible that connects generations, genders, races, and ...
I was recently asked by a friend to attend a wedding. I'm not sure if it's the wedding season itself, or the fact I'm attending one with a member of the opposite sex that piques the interest of my family. But if you dangle these carrots in front of the horses that are my sisters, cousins and aunts, you soon find myself a contestant on the hit game show "When are you gonna hurry up and settle down?!"
Fresh cut grass, pepper being played, the pop of the catcher's glove – overbearing bleacher parents that couldn't catch a fly ball with a fisherman's net. These are a just few of the sights and sounds that let you know baseball season has arrived.
Like a scene from the movie Hoosiers, an entire town rallied and gathered on Yosemite Ave. last Thursday in hopes of spurring the Manteca High boys basketball team to a victory in the state title game in Sacramento. The town as a whole jumped on their collective horses, and rode 60 miles north to raucously support this upstart group of young men. Meanwhile, much like the Dennis Hopper character in the movie Hoosiers, the one relegated to a mental hospital bed - unable to attend the game because of his life decisions. There I was, trapped in the cab of a ...
It's funny sometimes the way you are reminded just how small a world - and more to the point the town we live in - really is. I was kicking around the idea of asking people who they considered Manteca's all time best basketball player.
I try my hardest not to repeat topics in this column. That is of course until they come full circle and once again can be rehashed. It would be a pretty boring column for everyone if each week "I hate the word Mantweeka, I used to be good at sports, and somebody find me a girlfriend" filled up page 2. But every once in a while divine intervention intercedes. Little League baseball starts up in a few days – and my 5 year old nephew doesn't understand why in his age group, there isn't a winner or a loser ...
The second I heard about Tuesday's police incident, involving a stolen car high speed chase, and subsequent shooting of the perpetrator – I readied myself for the two differentiating factions to raise their voices and opinions.
Being a 40-year-entitled boob myself, it is rare that I come across the entitlements of others, and am left mouth agape. It takes a special person to ever cause me to reel back and think, "My lord, can this person be serious?!" But recently I encountered a fellow entitled boob, and she was firing on all cylinders.
It's Super Bowl week. America's most popular, yet unrecognized holiday. This is Thanksgiving with a better football game. If congress would finally pass a law, giving us Monday morning off – I'd be willing to say goodbye to Valentine's and Labor Day forever. The NFL put together a week of interactive events and attractions, all intended to draw people into San Francisco. Being a Raider fan, I have no dog in this Super Bowl fight, but would love to watch the Broncos lose another one.
There is nothing I enjoy more than hearing from a friend or acquaintance that they want to give stand-up comedy a try. I usually recommend they walk outside in the morning to get the paper in their underwear; it's basically the same, especially if you decide to get the entire block's paper for them.