Dino Baskovic Can't Lose

Collected clips from my long-defunct webzine, dated February 16, 2000:

Be careful what you give... or you're going to get it

Guys generally get a bad rap, and Valentine's Day has a lot to do with it. Cheap gifts, or what are perceived as cheap gifts, also have a lot to do with it. And sure, there's thoughtlessness to account for. For example, I knew of one future couples-therapy candidate who gave his darling a check for Valentine's Day. Yep, you read that right. A check. And not even inside of a card. Just handed her a check, told her it was easier than trying to pick out something for her. And the capper to this caper is that this was not just some girl he'd been dating for a month or two. This was his fiancé.

But, as Mr. Pink said, "F--- all that." I'm here to tell you it's not all our fault.

First of all, what happens to that "it's the thought that counts" mentality that is so prevalent at Christmas? By February, it seems that materialism and/or some Harlequin-novel sense of romance pervade. But not every guy is Fabio; some of us have brains in our heads, after all. Well, brains or not, soon guys are being hit over the head with the idea that they are cheap, insensitive louts with no more romantic sense than God gave a rabbit. But I am here to say that you guys are not completely to blame. Notice I said "not completely." I am all too aware of the shortcomings, so to speak, that most men possess.

And who's to blame for all of this? Why, The Media, of course. (That's right - capital letters, because this is big-time evil we're talking about.) When The Media are not discussing the oral sex habits of politicians; not turning our kids into mindless zombies with the attention spans, -- as Dennis Miller put it so eloquently - "of a ferret on a double espresso;" when they aren't generally drowning the public in a sea of sordid sewage, what are they doing? 

The Media are giving guys a bad reputation.

- Brian W.

Like I need a hole in the heart

I've come to the conclusion that I'm a hopeless romantic with a hole-y heart. It makes it easier to write and harder to talk about what's really going on inside. Some of you might recognize this phenomenon. But when were you wounded and how do you mend them? Can you?

And let's face it, some wounds are downright funny. Any story ever written by a dejected fool just wreaks of sarcasm and drips irony. It's as if the person plucked every barbed wire from your heart, cackling all the while. And then there are the sloppy sweet believers who marinate every word in lovey-dovey, fuzzy toilet seat covers. Words like "snoogle" become part of their vocabulary. To this crowd—please, drown yourselves. 

Finally, there are those of us who believe, whether right or wrong, that we exist somewhere in the middle amidst the constant struggle to survive our own conflicting reflections of flushed cheeks and dagger-me stares. If we all got together in one room would we find we were missing the same pieces or could we form a whole person together? What the hell does a whole person look like anyway? I'm pretty sure I've never met one.

- Aimee V.E.

Explode myself

We went out to shoot, and I called fire on myself. We were in a bunker and I figured, "What the hell." I got the coordinates from a Plugger (a military GPS system). The captain didn't mind. 

Some of the rounds landed behind us, but I know I got at least one hit. They were only 105mm rounds. Only about 40 pounds of explosion.  

Mostly fragmentation and shrapnel. The truck nearby didn't do so well. Neither did my own personal truck.

- Don S.

The XFL???

This one is way too reminiscent of big fish in a small barrel, or something like that. No, idiot, I'm not concerned about the integrity of the game play. Anyone taking that point of view is a little goofy in the gray matter. 

A real huge question mark is money. I saw old man Vince McManon is investing $10 million. To you and me that's a whole lotta Bud Light, but in pro football that's a fraction of a single team's payroll. I admit I don't know what his whole plan is, but I can only imagine. What does it consist of, two teams made up of washed-up high school gym-class heroes, traveling the land and playing like the Harlem Globetrotters and the Washington Generals?

Others have tried a whole lot harder to take a piece o' market share away from the No Fun League and they haven't succeeded. Count me in with the naysayers.

- Mark H.

O, what a night

I soon found out that I'd have no problem getting home as Calvin slammed the door to his bedroom and announced that it was time to go. Was he kidding? Why did he bring me to his place if we'd be leaving so soon? I'm no expert in post-bar etiquette so I followed him out the door and into his car where I met a situation so awkward I began to think maybe my life was a goddamn movie. 

It seems Calvin's girlfriend, yes, his girlfriend, had decided to wait for him in his bed as a little late-night surprise. Neither she nor I expected the other and somewhere amidst my dramatic plea to a greater power to put me out of my ceaseless misery, I laughed at how truly pathetic this was. This shit only happens to me. I mean, really, who does that? In his pitiful apology he convincingly called her his ex and acted just as shocked and bewildered as I was. Ugh, please. I can only say that I am naive, not stupid, and that maybe Calvin should have checked to see what friends we had in common before he fed me a story so asinine I now think he's been checked in the head a few times too many. 

The next day, my friend and faithful relationship counselor John laughed in my face as he told me the truth behind my evening. Calvin was a cheating bastard, it seemed, and the joke was altogether on his girlfriend and me. I don't know what Calvin said to her, but they are still together. I'd give anything to tell her to get a little self-respect and peace his unfaithful ass out. 

- Rebecca G.

Top X list

As I once explained, my head swells with multiple egos and competing agendas. It's like there's a buncha little horned Dinos hunched on my shoulders all day whispering "kill her" or "slowly clip the green wire" or "my beloved ice cream bar."

Long story short, I couldn't decide on a single topic to write, and dammit, I wrote enough shit last month to last you through the rest of winter. With that, here are the top 10 stories I almost wrote, attributing of course the enigmatic letter "X" and the month of February...

X. [REDACTED]

IX. Exacting methods of medieval monkey torture.

VIII. My idea for "Disney After Hours: XXX-Rated Mousecapades".

VII. [REDACTED]

VI. [REDACTED]

V. Cancel Letterman.

IV. Exacting methods of medieval monkey torture for the family.

III. Top 10 lists are a great way to fill white space.

II. [REDACTED]

I. Roman numerals are for sissies.

- Dino B.