I've been in a once-on-Sunday, once-during-the-week posting rhythm of late, and I apologize for changing that this week. I had planned to post at points during the past week but, amazingly, I've broken some sort of personal record by going out a total of eight straight days. Often, just a post-game beer or two (or, in two cases, a pre-season beer or two), but enough to prevent proper commitment to the high-quality work you've come to expect of late.

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After knocking out Beck a few weeks ago, GbV's "I Am a Scientist" (maybe the lowest remaining seed as an 18) faces "Our Lips Are Sealed" in the Gimme Indie Rock tournament. Please support Dayton's finest export accordingly. America thanks you.

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But for a weeklong Sunday-on-the-roof-related pinking last year, I haven't had a significant sunburn since...well...probably 1992 or so. I was far less pain-tolerant then, probably.

With 85-degree (Sunday, mid-afternoon) and 93-degree (Monday, early-afternoon) temperatures in the area, the Great Lakes beckoned and, well, it's time to consider the streak over.

Sunday's announced objective: "The summer doesn't truly start until I've lost one layer of skin." Thankfully, my forearms started to peel Sunday evening at about 9:45 (only 7:30 since my first exposure to the sun, which has got to be a record of some sort), and this afternoon's beach gear included some sunscreen (SPF 23 and SPF 15, neither mine).

I'm out of practice, however, and the result is a slotchy pink-and-pale pattern on my torso, significant salmoning of the shoulders, and a lobster-like visage. Live and learn.

(For the record, my legs remain pale, and the arms have taken on an actual tan tint, which is worth something.)

Worst part, however, is the top of the feet. I made the brazen but conscious decision to ignore them, and the dogs are officially barking. Good with the bad, I guess.

Rud family rule: Aloe is for wussies. I'm still holding out, although that might change come Tuesday night.

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Baseball: We had a real, real nice opening homestand Wednesday through Friday, with two sellouts and a rain-soaked Thursday evening. I got a chance on Wednesday to greet fans on the way out, and it was a blast. Not a frown in the house, and lots of

Me: "We'll see you back tomorrow?"
Fan: "We won't miss a game all year."

Upside of the weekend was the fan support, the relative smoothness of our gameday operation, and reasonably snappy play on the field. (We don't really control quality of play, but terribly played ballgames affect everyone at the yard.)

Downside was, well, the broadcasts.

There's a long way to go, I'd say. I did no play-by-play on Wednesday (R/DS wanted to be on the "historic" calls like, for instance, the first groundout to short in franchise history), and Thursday's was riddled with technical problems. Not related to the technical problems, however, was the fact that I sucked. Sucked hardcore. Calls were slow, knowledge was weak, and I was just off my game. I had, after all, been out of practice for eight months.

Problem is, while I was technically better on Friday, I still wasn't particularly good. When serving as the color guy (for four of my six half-innings), the R/DS Does. Not. Shut. Up. He's got pitch counts, and home batting averages from last year, and lifetime batting averages against the other franchise. In other words, he's armed with useless and impertinent information. He's also armed with rudimentary baseball knowledge, and a cumbersome way of stating it.

So, while I may have sucked, I was the first-best person on our broadcasts, I think. But, then again, I'm also a dick.

I'm not trying to be negative or defeatest, but broadcasting will be tough this summer. This is because a) the R/DS is aggravating, and, b) because I'm not doing it every day for the first time since I started drawing a paycheck. It'll be tough to find a rhythm, especially in the solo innings (which is what matters if I'm trying to make a career out of this), but I'll do my best.

I was pretty smooth on Friday, actually.

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In listening to the game while drinking on newly-purchased patio furniture on Saturday night, coworkers and I did come up with some rules for the "R/DS Play-By-Play Drinking Game."

These include:

- Take one drink when he mentions a pitch count.
- Take another drink if he follows the pitch count with a ball-strike ratio.
- Take another drink if he follows the ball-strike ratio with a comparison to either a) his counterpart's ball-strike ratio or b) the pitcher's ball-strike ratio earlier in the game.

- Take one drink when he plugs a sponsor at a point in which he is not contractually obligated to plug the sponsor.
- If the sponsor has not purchased any actual radio advertising (commercials, live reads, or drop-ins), take two drinks.

- If he responds to an email from a staff member with a "Shout Out" to the staff, take one drink.
- If he follows this by relaying the contents of the message sent, take another drink.
- If he repeats the blatant and obvious lie outlined in the message, take another drink.

- Finish your beer when he mispronounces the word "Balk." (He pronounces the L, which is just ridiculous.)

Had we followed the rule on Sunday night, we would have finished four beers in a five-minute period. Not a real disciplined pitcher, it should be stated.

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WIDiRVoFOW
(I'll be honest, this will probably become a list of "why he sucks as a broadcaster" in the very near future, but I'll stick with petty complaints here.)

This Week's Reason: He has awful taste in things, but doesn't realize it.

Supporting Evidence: His favorite band: Bon Jovi. His favorite movies: All four Police Academy movies.

Once, knowing that he listens to a lot of music, particularly pop from the 80's, I had to ask: "R/DS, do you listen to the Beatles?" His response: "I'm more of a Monkees guy."

Most Aggravating Aspect: His ring tone. I'll be sitting there, typing or reading something or compiling asinine and unimportant stats...that is, working...and I'll be interruped:
WHOA! WE'RE HALF-WAY THERE-ERE! WHOA! LIVIN' ON A PRAY-ER!...and he'll either a) let it ring, or b) sing along before picking it up.

Again, not made up.

"...he is so un-natural on the air (and, I sense, in life.)" Clearly, I couldn't have written or said it better, Nemo.