Month: July 2023

I’ve already told y’all one of the main reasons I launched this godsend of a page is because it allows me to write whatever the hell I want, how and when — sans editorial interference.

This is that in a big way, ‘cause upon the overthinker that is me’s 33rd read of my marathon “Impact People” post of a couple weeks ago, I realized I might never sleep again if I don’t formally double back and give specific love to some magical souls who’ve impacted me in major ways. They either weren’t singled out in the original in my misguided attempt to keep the marathon from turning into an Iron Man test of the reader’s endurance, or they didn’t do the soul-searing thing until after the post was penned.

Let’s call it exactly what this is: A series of makeup calls for some omissions that were, in the immortal words of Urbs Unchained’s official Native Texan Secretary of Homespun Humor, Scott Palmer, “uglier than homemade soap.”

Quick refresher: Impact People are those who appear in your life outta nowhere and worm their way so deeply into your heart that you’ll be forever grateful. Here are a handful who’ve done that to me on some next-level levels:

Chris Baines, aka Kris Stylez: Former pro wrestler, director of security for the Houston Astros (with rings to prove it), and currently an on-the-comeup-as-Stylez rapper/singer/songwriter/producer, Chris has been invaluable to my mental health as I’ve recovered from an April accident that left me in a coma for 10 days, the hospital for 27, and an after-care facility forever.

No cap, I thought he was a mute when I met him. Turns out he’s simply a listener. A thoughtful, empathetic, wizened master of the lost art. Pure as a friend comes.

Bonus: Baines laughs at pretty much everything I do or say. Nobody’s THAT funny, but he makes me feel like I am, and there’s a lot of self-esteem value in that.

Ms. White-Hot Smarty Pants; aka The One; aka Fucker: Remember the top of my Impact People scale, the ones who hit you with such force that you’re instantly temporarily transferred — and perhaps permanently should you be so blessed — into some ethereal energy field that leaves you with little recourse by way of articulating the emotion outside of “Holy Shit”?

That would be the wonderful woman with whom I recently connected who checks literally every box I’ve been fastidiously formulating for years as it applies to a perfect potential partner. Brilliant and beautiful, tall and too cool to do justice with mere words, thoughtful and the polar opposite of thotful, kind and caring, effortlessly empathetic, sexy and sensitive with swag on seven billion, forcefully fierce, perceptive, and perhaps the funniest woman alive, Ms. White-Hot stopped my streak of Groundhog Day dating-app experiences with a single word at the end of her profile’s narrative: champ.

As in, “Shoot your shot, champ.” Never one to shy away from jacking up prayers, I shot with the best, most comically over-the-top sales pitch since I told my now-ex that if she’d give me just one date she’d end up walking the aisle in my direction.

I’d made a similarly bold prediction to this spectacular alien being, a former southpaw baller herself and an elite prep swimmer who went to college on a cheerleading scholarship before moving to Houston to settle on a law school. She actually reached out to me first, an upset of N.C. State-over-Phi Slama Jama-in-1983 proportions, and after my shot found nothing but net, I quickly discovered that she’s essentially perfect.

So damn right I’m feeling like a champ these days. “I’ll take ‘Worth The Wait’ for $800, Alex.” Princess Smarty Pants is a rock star, period. And she doesn’t think I’m a dork. Yet.

Bonus: Not only does she let me get away with calling her “fucker,” which believe it or not is an actual term of endearment and affection for me, she actually suggested I save her contact info in my phone under the name. Which I did, of course, and now get a childish kick out of the nonsensical notifications that “FUCKER has sent you a text message.” Holy Shit, she’s good.

Mike Washington, aka Wash, aka Big Bear, aka Belly Penis: Yes, “Belly Penis.” It’s actually what HE calls MY umbilical bump, but it’s so damn funny I flipped it.

Wash is as Ride-or-Die as a friend could be, having stormed into my life as a semi-pro baseball rotation-mate who has been my First Mate ever since. Over 33 years of ups, downs and sideways, he’s been there with an understanding ear, unfiltered advice, endless and side-splitting jokes, unconditional love and Big Bear hugs that say, “I got you, big fella,” in the warmest of ways.

Bonus: During the pandemic, post-divorce, when I was scraping the bottom of the barrel of fear and self-loathing, he made the 90-minute drive from his home to mine damn near every Sunday to keep me sane.

And last but not least, Barry Zito, aka Z, aka Drake Holloway: My first year covering Major League Baseball was his first full year playing it, and the year he left the Oakland A’s to sign with the San Francisco Giants, my career coincidentally made the same move across the Bay Bridge. And we both endured some serious struggles in the wake of said switch.

As a result, we drifted apart for a bit despite having been WAY more unorthodoxly tight than an athlete and media member are supposed to — and to hear many say it, allowed to — be for the previous decade while traveling the American League as frequent partners in crime.

But we never lost touch entirely, and when we both got right, we found our friendship more valuable than ever, and he’s my most trusted and inspiring consigliere to this day. Just a prince of a human being, with the heart the size of a blue whale and the best father this side of Harold Vincent Urban.

Bonus: Z’s on-the-air voicemail to my radio show one Sunday, explaining his no-show by saying he’d been quarantined after petting “Powder” down at the “Unicorn Stables,” remains a priceless web gem worthy of your time down whatever rabbit hole you need to dive into to find it.

Honorable mentions: Andrew Burruss, Mary Todd Hoppock, Russell “Rusty” Reimer, Michelle Sterling, Doug Miller and Kristen Khorge. Unforgettably amazing Impactful People as well.

Thank you for you. All of you.

Chasing a dream job that turned nightmare faster than you can say “apparently undue diligence,” I packed up my 54 years of life in the San Francisco Bay Area last August and moved to Houston.

When most people hear “California to Texas” — particularly people who aren’t real familiar with either state but think they are — they assume you’ve experienced culture shock at Why On Earth Would You Do That To Yourself levels.

To the uninitiated, it’s a caricature constructed on time-honored but tired tropes.

To the ill-informed, taking cues from Hollywood and every other media outlet that specializes in over-generalization, California is the land surfers, stoners, valley girls, arrogant and filthy rich 12-year-old tech wizards, surgically enhanced damn-near-everythings, and butt-naked flower children crunching kale on the coast.

Wildly conversely, the stereotypes of Texas include “Howdy Pahdnahs,” Nolan Ryans and ranchers, loud and obnoxious oil barons, huge-hair hussies, huge-hat and spur-booted rodeo wranglers, cow tippers, tumbleweeds and Tex-Mex for miles, and drawlin’ debutantes lookin’ for a shot and a poke Deep In The Heart Of.

(Props to my man Scott “The Mayor of Respiteville” Palmer, a native Texan and as helpful a man as you’ll meet, for providing the beautifully colorful turn of phrase that is “lookin’ for a shot and a poke.” So pro.)

You’ll get this reminder from me ad nauseam: Stereotypes exist for a reason. There’s some truth to ‘em. I can say that with confidence about California because I lived there forever.

But Texas? Eh. Can’t really say, mostly because Houston is different. Quite a bit different, from what Houstonians tell me. Like it’s a state unto its own, immune to the cartoon conceptions. Like Houston isn’t IN the Lone Star State; it IS the Lone Star State. Emphasis “Lone.”

I wouldn’t go THAT far. I’ve seen a good number of big-ass belt buckles and shit-kickers. But I have been pleasantly surprised to realize — almost Instantly upon arrival — that the massive adjustment I assumed would come with my new home would be minimal at most.

Truth is, Houston is a lot like every other major American city. There’s good, bad, beauty and blight.

There’s a lot about it I really like. Love, even. And there’s some things I don’t. And while “hate” is a strong word that I tried to teach my daughters never to use, they’re grown now, and the word just works better in a headline.

So without further ado, and I’m King Ado so thanks for enduring the ado, here are some things I’ve come to dig, and some that make me want to dig ‘em a hole.

LOVE: Houston reminds me of my native Bay Area in many ways, the most significant being that there’s great cultural diversity.

People from all walks of life, people from all corners of the globe country, people from all over the globe. And no matter what your culinary, nightlife, musical or living situation predilections might be, you can find a spot that’s going to whet whatever appetite needs whetting. You might have to ask around a bit if your boat-floating fetish is freaky, but you’ll find it.

HATE: The heat and humidity. I’ve only been here for 11 months, but I’ve yet to experience anything resembling the tradition seasons of fall, winter or spring. There’s not even what this soft NorCal boy recognizes as summer. It’s a season with which I’m unfamiliar, but I like to name stuff, so I’ve named this oppressive season “Are You F***ing Kidding Me?!?” And it’s celebrated daily by losing nine pounds walking to pick up the mail.

To describe it, I’ll paraphrase the greatest thing I’ve ever heard from the mouth of Japanese baseball legend Ichiro Suzuki, who always knew WAY for English than he let on. He was actually talking about Kansas City in summer, and he used a different animal in his analogy, but it’s too cool to not crib: Houston, far more often than not, is hotter than two raccoons — enter Ichiro, verbatim — “fucking in a wool sock.”

LOVE: Public transportation. The Metro bus and train system is mostly money, making its Bay Area counterpart look like a network of clown cars. Metro, in my experience, is reliable and clean. It’s a big city, so you’ll definitely run into some vagrants and the lovely scent of urine from time to time, but I suppose that’s the price of cosmopolitan living in the big city.

And Metro is cheap! To get back from a doctor appointment today, I needed to catch a bus and two trains. Total cost: $1.25.

HATE: Thunderstorms. I don’t mind the outta-nowhere rain that makes it seem like Noah 2.0 should be busy at work on the Ark 2.0 like, NOW. And I don’t mind getting wet, because the wetness of the skies is a billion times more preferable than the wetness of the inevitable swamp-ass that comes with Are You F***ing Kidding Me?!

And never mind it’s a hot rain. An 86-degree downpour is a welcome little break from the typical feels-like temp of 157. And I do mean little. No matter how savagely it dumps, it usually stops as quickly as it starts.

The lightning is pretty cool, too. it’s part and parcel with thunderstorms, of course, but there is beauty in that. But the thunder itself? I don’t care how many horror flicks you’ve seen, but you haven’t been frightened until until you get a 2:30 AM clap that makes you sympathize with those who live in, I don’t know, Fallujah, and have experienced a bomb exploding in their bedroom.

And I know it’s awfully aggressive for a second urine reference, but I don’t know any other way to say it: It’ll scare the piss right out of you.

LOVE: Passionate sports town. Delusionally so, particularly as it applies to Rockets fans, who seem to think James Harden is a winner and that their two world titles weren’t the result of Michael Jordan’s first retirement. And they still rationalize the Astros cheating scandal, like everyone uses garbage cans and cameras and drones and helicopters to steal signs.

But it was time to let that go, and that’s why it was so cool that the Astros won the World Series last fall. Having grown up a fan of the Giants and A’s, and having been lucky enough to cover Oakland’s Big Three era, and the world championship era of recent Giants vintage, the similarities were inescapable. Young, relatable, prone to late-inning, magic, and straight-up likable, they were must see TV and rewarded your interest in the most euphoric of ways. I was really happy for their die-hards, and happy for Art Howe and Dinn Mann. They’d all suffered enough.

As for the football team, I say they don’t win jack until they change the dumbest name on Planet Sport. The Houston Texans? Someone actually threw that out at a meeting and got thumbs up from all corners of the room? Good lord. Can’t wait for the rest of the country to catch on.

Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to the Portland Oregonians!

HATE: Stadium confusion and goofiness. The soccer stadium used to be called EaDo, and that’s still what Metro calls the corresponding train stop. But now it’s called Shell Energy Stadium. Is it really that hard to print up a few new signs?

The football stadium used to be called Reliant, and now it’s called NRG. Virtually every giant building here has the name of an energy monolith attached to it, so if your glass is half full, “NRG” is kind of clever. But if your glass is half empty, it reeks of trying a little bit too hard.

And I’ve always been under the impression that a nickname by definition is short for something, so I don’t quite understand why the baseball stadium, Minute Maid, is called “The Juice Box.” Ahem. Three syllables is three syllables, people. And if you want to get technical and say that it’s “Minute Maid Park,“ three syllables isn’t all that short for four.

 And finally …

LOVE: Y’all. I say it all the time, y’all. It’s catchy, y’all. Sue me, y’all.

HATE: Sprawl. Houston is spread so wide and has such confusing roads and highways and freeways and speedways and every-which-ways, it doesn’t matter if your destination is five miles away or 30. It’s gonna take you 30 minutes to get there.

Just take Metro, y’all. It’s only $1.25!

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When I started this page way back when the word “blog” made the arrogant journalism purist in me throw up in my mouth a lil’ bit, the goal was purely selfish: I just wanted a space where I could write whatever I damn-well pleased, unencumbered by the craft’s traditional shackles. You know, pesky stuff like editors and rules against working blue.

I’d like to think I’ve done some growing up in the many years since some generous-of-spirit internet auteurs assisted in Unchained’s unveiling, and as such the goal has changed. I still love me some strategically planted F-bombs among the flowers , but now there’s a touch of altruism to the updates.

in short (says the often insanely long writer you’re about to experience), I’d like to effectively articulate some interesting things I’ve been blessed to experience in an effort to entertain, and to pass along some life lessons I’ve been blessed to learn in the hopes that they impact some people in a real, lasting and positive way.

I led with said statement of mission today in response to the recent reminder, courtesy a new and potentially special friend, that none of us has any idea how or when — zero control whatsoever — we’re going to meet someone who’ll have a real, lasting and positive impact on us.

Someone who actually changes something within us, for THE good and FOR good.

If you’re lucky, you’ll meet a bunch of these people. But if you don’t meet a bunch of ‘em, it certainly doesn’t mean you’re not lucky.

Even if you only meet one, and that’d be extreme because almost everybody’s blessed with at least a handful of these Impact People, you absolutely are lucky.

Remember, we’re talking about someone whose mark upon you left an impression that’s — all together now — real, lasting and positive. 

That’s potent, powerful stuff. 

Thus, there’s a good chance you’ll know that this person is special the moment you meet. You might not know right then exactly what this person will come to mean, but the feeling that something’s up is right there.

It’s sudden-onset, and it can range in intensity from “Hmm…” on the low end of the register, to “Whoa” in the middle, all the way up to “Holy Shit!” at its apex.

I experienced my first “Hmm …” — a subtle sense of just knowing — with Mr. Keller, the Woodside High English teacher who sat me down and told me I was a writer WAY before I ever knew I was or wanted to be.

Knowing I was still delusional, convinced that my fairly near future was that of a professional athlete, he simply suggested I keep the writing arrow in my quiver as a Plan C.

How delusional? Plan A was the NBA, despite a borderline laughable vertical leap and even less-impressive handle. Think Harrelson or Harlow in “White Men Can’t Jump” meets Brad Lohaus or Lance Stephenson in heavy mid-court traffic.

Plan B was MLB ace, despite having command that called to mind red-tipped white canes and “breaking balls” that openly mocked me as they barely even humpbacked before bouncing a good six inches in front of home plate.

I peaked in both sports at the collegiate level, so Mr. Keller was clearly onto something that ultimately had a massive impact on my life. But the moment I met him lasted all of five seconds, tops, and while I did suspect that this gentle, warm cat with the Cool Uncle vibe was going to be good for me, it was a very vague vibe, a decidedly low-frequency feeling.

At the high end of the scale, “Holy Shit!” Is essentially an industrial-strength blender of feelings set on “Obliterate.” A blissfully painless jackhammer to the dome that’ll metaphorically drop you even before the moment you physically meet this particularly intoxicating iteration of an Impact Person.

Think dating-app profile on the strongest steroids science has to offer. Literally at first glance of a photograph, the instant you become consciously aware of being in Holy Shitville, this person’s presence leaves you a little loopy, and as the stunning surface beauty’s layers peel back with each exchange of messages to revealed a soul every bit as attractive, the senses are pummeled with rat-a-tat-tat that starts with nothing short of awe and ends with an exhausted exhilaration, full-stop. 

Like, “Ummm. Yeah. This ain’t normal. But it’s really fucking cool.” That kind of awe. 

You try to snap out of it, knowing any projection of obvious awe can’t be the greatest look to rock when you’re talking to ANYONE for the first time. But the best you can do is make your peace with a slightly less-obvious dreamlike state — wonder? — in which you’re definitely still trippin’ and not really processing much, but at least you can reasonably function in the presence of this insanely magnetic stranger kinda freaking you out and effortlessly stirring some seriously rare — the rarest, really — but not-unhealthy emotions. 

And thankfully, before long this rarest of  Impact Person will have graciously made you completely comfortable, somehow settling you into a much-needed and appreciated sense of hyperserenity, entirely content, just happily marveling that you’re actually a welcome and equal part of what’s happening.

And you know (okay, perhaps “hope” is more applicable) that it’s massive RIGHT NOW. “Figure out the why later,” you tell yourself. “Go! Go! Go!” Almost impossible to NOT charge that shit. 

But at this end, with those incredible highs, there is risk. And a vulnerability inherent in any interpersonal interaction on the internet. It can be a wicked web, indeed.

Like I said, it can leave you loopy for a whiiiiiiiiile. And loopy can be really fun. In fact, I think it’s absolutely necessary. But it’s not a good way to be for any protracted amount of time, particularly when that time is so incredibly important for you to handle your new Star with the patience and respect they deserve while protecting yourself against a potentially devastating disappointment.

Like if out of nowhere comes an expert opinion on Crypto, or a promise of undying devotion in exchange for $200, or — no bullshit; this actually happens out there — a request to be sent A FREAKING XBOX!

A s is the case with virtually all intoxicants, you can lose yourself real quick-like when you start chasing them and caring about little else. You start doing dumb, way-out-of-character shit, desperate for the next fix, the next hit of your utter fascination.

And that’s the ultimate risk, because if this new friend proves legit you can absolutely lose yourself, inadvertently pushing this person away and in turn losing this incredible gift that you just KNOW is a gift directly to you, and you KNOW in someway you’ll be an Impact Person for them. But it’s like you can’t stop yourself. 

I mean, rare and special people are still people. They tire. They get weirded out if some stranger seems a tad too sprung too soon. And they read people really well, really quickly.

And here’s real: Rare And Special usually has options. 

So you gotta be crazy careful in a way you’ve never been or had to be. Pace is important. You can’t force what could have a “lasting” impact with one all-in week of gotta-stay-in-the-game gonzo. Try to do that and it won’t last a month. Maybe not even two weeks. Hell, you might never even get to actually SPEAK to Rare And Special if you spazz on ‘em.

So breathe. Silence is not your enemy. Nor is restraint. Too much of your voice is, though. 

So don’t get so blinded by Rare And Special’s irresistible alien glow that you can’t see yourself personally dimming the glow by trying to monopolize it, or be demanding of it with you’re own immaturity and entitlement.

(If it feels like I’m talking to … I don’t know … MYSELF? Mind your own damn business, lol. I’m workin’ here!)

Clichés and tropes exist for a reason: They’re rooted in universal truths. So here: “Let the game come to you.” Everything’s gonna be good — as long as you don’t wig out and fuck it all up. You’re welcome. 

That’s been my experience, anyway. I have been blessed by more than a handful of such amazing people, just showing up and sliding into my soul. And I’ve had a visceral reaction of some sort to every single one. I can remember every first moment and first feeling like it was yesterday. 

And just as I eventually recognized the aforementioned range to the intensity levels and struggled to modulate my various feelings, I’ve found that my Impact People fall into one of three categories. None more or less important than the others. 

There’s group of them who’ve impacted me in a very specific, singular way. Not quite a hit-and-run thing. More of an in-and-out, my-work-here-is-done thing.

My first journalism professor, a gruff, loud, colorful, brilliant firecracker of a man named Robert Glessing, is a perfect example. He suggested I change the “i” in my first name to a “y” — he said Michael is a boring and common name, but he ALWAYS noticed when it was spelled with a Y — and pretty much bounced. And he was right.

There’s a group that sticks around a little longer. In my case it’s included a couple bosses; one who saw my potential as a very young professional and gave me the room to screw the pooch on occasion while I worked out how to maximize it, and another who didn’t just know how to maximize it but insisted I expand on it considerably.

Couple coaches, too, and teammates from all walks of life. Each willing and able to teach through outreach.

And the third group is comprised of straight-up Lifers who stick so securely to the deepest recesses of your soul that you feel them forever. Or hope to. My aforementioned new friend, I suspect, might prove worthy of entry to that exclusive and inspiring club.

So yeah, I’ve been very blessed. Very lucky.

But there’s no question that as I’ve grown older, more experienced, and more understanding of who I am and where I fit best in the world, I’m not meeting these Impact People nearly as often. 

It slowed to a trickle, really,  and after years without, I’d fairly recently figured I’d hit the lifetime limit. And I was good with that.

And the truth, the awesome truth, is that the impact that ALL of these Rare And Special people have on you is probably going to shape-shift over time, if not grow tentacles with multiple different types of impact. 

That’s the jackpot. Get one of those types in your orbit and you’re good in a lot of different ways.

I was wrong about reaching my quota. This recent development proved it, and it feels important to share. To offer hope by way of this reminder that you might be mere moments away from getting hit by more Impact People.

Pretty cool notion, right?

“Holy Shit!” indeed.

—Mychael (with a Y)