He's off to a bad start. CD looks like a wax museum rendering of Stephen Colbert without glasses, or perhaps a wax museum rendering of himself without a soul.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
I don't really eat out much any more, but when I do... I guess it's kind of an event. So here goes:
Mz. and I got a sitter and strode our asses down to Strip House on E 12th Street. The theme is red (as in rare) and sleazy (as in strippers - get it?). And I thought Portland was the only place I'd get a steak and a naked chick at the same time!
We were literally starving when we sat down to eat. I immediately thought I saw a celebrity sitting two tables down from us, in the form of the guy on E.R. who hits on Lucy (the blond girl) just as Carter decides he wants to jump her bones (he stares at her butt in at least one scene).
It wasn't him, but we ended up sitting right next to a celebrity after all. We forgot that steak houses rank extremely high on the "chances of sitting next to complete assholes" scale (just below flights to Dallas and just above Philllies games). Our delicious bread basket and most of the rest of the meal were tainted by an obnoxious loudmouth about 18 inches away. He wouldn't stop talking about his hot model (ex-)wife in Chicago and his amazing (former) apartment in Chicago and this and that and blah blah blah. I guess he (Mario?) was one of the house-husbands from the show Real Housewives of New York, or so the Mz. tells me. The only thing more pathetic than this chump was the ass-kisser he showed up with, who yessed and wowed him right under the table. I've never heard someone so impressed by a guy that got dumped.
Anyway, the food was mahvelous. After the delicious bread basket, we were treated to two shot glass-sized butternut squash soups. From what I understand, this is quite common at fancy restaurants. I was just coming back from the rest room when I caught the Mz. slurping down half of hers before I even sat down. I immediately accused her of drinking without toasting, and then realized that you don't really toast with soup.
Oh yeah, the rest rooms (at least the mens') are decorated with old-style burlesque-type photos. You know, black and white pictures of naked ladies. Each urinal had one planted front and center, which I found a bit odd. I tried to take a picture of one with my phone, and got busted by some guy with my pants down and Razr in hand. Very embarassing.
After our proper toasting (beer and wine), we enjoyed appetizers of beets & asparagus (hers) and tomato & red onion salad (his). I found hers too creamy for my speed, while she found mine a tad high on the vinegarometer. This is not the first time this has happened.
Enough of my yakkin'-- bring on the steaks!!! We both had the good sense to order filets, and I had the good cents to order the big one. Men are usually emboldened upon entering a steak house-- anything goes. I almost jumped out of my seat and yelled, "MARK TEI-XEIRA!!! (clap, clap, clap-clap-clap)...)" upon the mere mention of the steaks. I recklessly ordered my filet medium.
The filet was damn perfect. It required no explanation; rather, it explained itself. It was what Wittgenstein would have called an atomic fact.
My moment of truth was derailed by a giant dish of steak sauce sloshing onto the table. We almost mistook it for gravy (I ordered potatoes), but we cleared that up pretty quickly. It almost seemed obscene, to spoil the pristine beauty of this 14 oz wonder with... steak sauce. I blurted out something to the effect of "... like putting a silk hat on a pig" before I realized my backasswardsness. Maybe putting a pig logo on a silk shirt? I'll get back to you on that one.
Anyway, I found that 3 or 4 crystals (molecules?) of salt were all each savory bite of steak needed. If I were skilled enough to actually sprinkle 3 or 4 crystals of salt at a time, I would have delivered said seasoning. Being a hamhanded klutz, I chose to eat my filet plain as Jane.
Overall, a fantastic experience. One of those meals that inspires you to actually reply truthfully to the waitress when she asks, "How was everything?"
"How was it? Fucking great!!!"
"Well, if you come back and I'm passed out on the floor with drool seeping out of my gaping idiot-mouth, it's because I ate so damn much of your delicious food!"
"I haven't felt this good for $200 since the Canada side of Niagara Falls in 1978! And she didn't give me pralines when I finished!!!"
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
This will be short, 'cause I'm waaaaay behind on holiday shit today. I'll just throw this one out there for all the complaining whiners out there. Would you feel better if we underpaid for all the guys we got? Like, if we acquired CC, A.J. and Mark (?) in complete steals, would we be more honorable?
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Friday morning did feature one notable subway scene: a true double seat-hog scenario. I'm a poor photographer with inadequate equipment, so my pictures totally suck. Here's the twin behemoths taking up four seats on a crowded AM rush 1 train with lots of people carrying bags or just plain tired like me.
Not only does my picture not do their heinous hiney-act justice, it barely even represents it. Better to go with what I imagined when I saw what I saw...
Remember these guys from the old Guinness Books? Then you got the really tall guy, the dude with the really long fingernails, and the woman with the smallest waist in the world. I used to love those books.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
More specifically, how should one listen to it?
Although I enjoyed this particular listen immensely, it's pretty clear that ambient music is not meant to be enjoyed on headphones (unless it's really darn quiet!). Headphones allow (force?) you to focus in on specific elements/tones of the music, which kinda goes against the whole idea of ambience. You're lookin' at trees, not forest. And the forest ain't the point anyhow!
Now I've had a few mind-melting listens to this sort of music with cans on (OK, more than a few), but we're talking about some serious pharmaceutical assistance here. Like, when you get up off the floor and say "Jesus Christ!" as you spill a 45-minute can of beer on the carpet. Lotsa fun, but not really what the artists had in mind...
Ambient music is supposed to be heard, and not (necessarily) listened to. Eno probably said it better:
Ambient Music must be able to accommodate many levels of listening attention without enforcing one in particular; it must be as ignorable as it is interesting.
Which begs the more compelling question: how should one watch it, particularly at an indie rock club surrounded by snobs, and especially if your friend is onstage?
I've seen more than a few "ambient" shows (I'm not talking about raves), and the crowds generally have no idea what to do. As Prodigy said, "Niggaz don't know how to act." I was seen on multiple occasions in the early 90's scurrying around clubs urging people to "do whatever you want" during instrumental shows-- or "Just walk around and act like you would at any bar!" I probably cost LaBradford a few dozen fans in this manner.
But I wasn't alone in my thinking. A few partners in crime and I had a great discussion one night on cough syrup at a rock club featuring a few instrumental bands. We agreed that the audience aesthetic for a live ambient show most closely resembles that of dancing in a club (there's your rave connection). You're letting the music guide you, but you're certainly not strictly focused on the musicians or melodies. Hopefully you're trying to get laid (or maybe just trying not to fall down)!
Wait a sec, so we should be dancing at instrumental ambient shows? Well, no. But my aforementioned ambient braintrust had that figured out. We collectively coined the term mind dancing-- the aural relationship is comparable to a conventional dancer's physical relationship to the music. We also decided that Ed Harris would have to play Brian Eno when the E'G Records movie is finally made (it's been almost 20 years since we said it, and no dice yet...). I'm pretty sure we puked that night too.
I was the featured performer (or "soundscapist") in the 1996 Lollapalooza "Chill-out Tent". It was a weird gig, to say the least. By our third city, I'd put dozens to sleep and inspired at least two people to vomit (although I did get one crazy dude to dance around to a mash-up of Rush's "2112"). By the end of the cross-country tour, auxillary performers were being added to the tent during my performances, including a hiphop DJ and a live S & M sex show. I can honestly claim to have played drones on a Korg keyboard over a Faust/Isley Bros track while hot wax was drizzled on a woman's naked boobs.
For the record, I used to groove to this kind of music on headphones all the time. One of my favorite activities as an early teen was to mow the lawn while listening to Metal Machine Music or "Swastika Girls"-- it made perfect sense to my young mind (although I almost chopped right through the power cord while spacing out to "Brutal Ardour" on one lazy Sunday afternoon).
Thursday, December 11, 2008
I'm talking about the "dead door" spot. We all love standing in the doors, even when we're not getting off for another ten stops. It pisses people off to no end, but it's a comfy spot nonetheless. I frequently perform the "gentleman's exit" or "okey-doke", where you step off and step back on again just before the doors close, thus reclaiming your door spot.
Anyway, the "dead door" occurs on the rare train with one malfunctioning door in a pair (usually F or A trains, it seems). One door never opens at all, squeezing exiting fares out like toothpaste. That stuck door, my friends, is the best spot on the train.
You get to stand in front of it and soak in all the nasty glares from other riders ("what makes you so special that you can just block the door like that?"), only to gloat in their faces when the door never moves. It's your own private nook, a little slice of heaven. I was standing next to some schmuck who was blocking the "live door" while I stood fast on his left. He was swept out of the car at 66th St. like a newbie on an Alaskan crab boat. He never knew what hit him.
I wondered yesterday if anyone had ever fallen out of a train where the dead door suddenly came to life... a zombie door! Doubt it-- broken shit on subways tends to stay broken.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
I knew something was amiss when the conductor called every stop from 110th to 79th on the 1 train incorrectly. I mean, he wasn't that far off (like when the automated announcement ones go totally haywire and start spewing names of upper Bronx stops while you're between Union Square and 23rd St, sending most of the riders into a fear-induced panic...)-- he was merely listing stops in the wrong direction. Every time!!!
"Next stop 116th... I mean, 103rd!"
"Next stop 110th... I mean, 96th!"
It was clear (to me, anyway!) that the underground ozone had a few tricks up its sleeve this morning. I chose to ignore the harbinger and soldier on.
I snagged a B train at 59th, while the other suckers crammed into an A. Downtown B is always a winner-- ain't no stepchild to the D, like y'heard. Stepped off at W 4th for the last leg and my known nemesis, the F.
W 4th platform was somewhat jammed up, but not much vim or vigor. It's just too early for people to really bitch. That said, I watched three motherf#$king V Trains drag by over a 15 minute period with no F trains at all.
If the F is becoming my nemesis, the V is the F's putrid manservant-- utterly powerless but ultimately demoralizing. The V is the appendix of the great NYC Transit System, or possibly its left male nipple.
Anyway, I must have waited 20 or so minutes for a damn train that actually goes somewhere! The F finally shows up, pretty packed and pretty late. No fanfare, no explanations, and no matter... we were just going to be late today.
This boring little travelogue is trying to capture the mysterious transit phenomenon where no single moment defines your extended trip, but your lateness is undeniable. No one or thing to blame, but you just lost almost a half hour of your time when you could've been watching Seinfeld, or playing Scramble, or even screwing. We lose enough of our lives on these god-forsaken tunnelboxes-- do we have to lose even more in ways we can't even explain? Where was I exactly, and what was I doing? What should I do next time I fear something like this might happen again?
Take the 2 or 3 train, like I did this afternoon. Nice & smooth, except for the guy built like Albert Pujols that crammed into half a seat, splitting a pair of quiet tourists apart for the time being.
Departing time: 6:25 am
Arriving time: 7:45 am
Route: 1 to B to F
TOTAL TRIP: 1 hour 20 minutes
Monday, December 8, 2008
Decided to take the F-route home instead of bus-to-Bergen (which has been very kind of late). I was starving, so I picked up a slice at Smiling Pizza.
Went down to the F and was met by utter chaos herself. Totally packed platform, which is ultra-rare for 5 pm (I'm going for an all-time hyphens & parentheses record, by the way). I was just about to gobble down my slice, when a train thundered down the express track-- no beeps and it actually stopped! It was actually taking passengers!
Little to no info was given and little to none was needed. When they let you on an "express train" at the F stop, you get the f%$k on! So I did, and put my slice back in its white paper bag.
The express was packed, and hardly express. We skipped 4th Ave (why??!!), and made the usual stops the rest of the way. I spotted a D at West 4th, and ambled across the platform to my transfer.
The inside seat of a pair of "right angle" seats (or "jutters") was open, and that was about it. I deftly stepped over three women and slid myself into the nook. I guess I slid myself a bit too quick, 'cause my pizza launched out of my paper bag and into the crevasse between the perpendicular seats. Oops.
Only a few people saw my gaffe, but the damage was done. I mourned for about twenty seconds, and then took a quick look under the seat. The slice had jackknifed back towards my leg, and was (unbelievably) tangled in my shoelace! I tried to kick it back under the seat, but only managed to spread tomato sauce all over the toe of my New Balances. An utter disaster.
Not much else to tell, except that I made up for lost time with a slick transfer at 59th St. I also rubbed my shoe off on an old lady's pant leg (just kidding!)...
Departing time: 4:55 pm
Arriving time: 6:05 pm
Route: F to D to 1
TOTAL TRIP: 1 hour 10 minutes
Friday, December 5, 2008
1. Enough trash on the Tuesday morning F train that some guy boarded and sighed, "Jesus Christ..."
2. Lee Jr. grabbing some lady's ass at least five times on the uptown afternoon rush 1 train on Wednesday.
3. A cretinous wretch giving me two flat tires going up the 96th St stairs. I turned around and said, "Jesus Christ!!!" right in the guy's Coke-bottled face and watched him scurry away like the blind rat he is.
4. A trio of double-seaters on the downtown morning D train. A skinny lady finally busted up the tushie trifecta by shoving herself between fatso #2 and fatso #3. For the few of us lucky enough to witness this brave act, this woman was nothing less than Rosa Parks.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Today's fiasco took place in the A.M., as opposed to the usual late afternoon nightmare. The Monday after Thanksgiving is never easy-- I was already running late before I got out the front door. After four days in a row with Lee Jr., it's just so hard to say goodbye... (sniff, sniff)
Nothing notable until I started dozing off at the 4th Avenue stop. Not sure how long I "walked the dog" for, but at some point I realized we weren't moving at all. Then the dreaded announcement pierced the elevated platform stop:
"This Coney Island-bound F Train is being taken out of service, due to a sick passenger on board. We have a sick passenger on board this F Train, and we're awaiting arrival of medical assistance. We recommend you find alternate means of travel, such as transferring to the..."
Alternate means of travel?! Helicopter? Zeppelin? Retro-booster backpack? No thanks-- I'll just sit here on the train and wait it out.
After two F's sped by on the center track, I began to consider my alternatives. I also wondered about this "sick passenger"-- it was a little early for a drunk puker. My money was on "dead passenger".
If you've seen the morning BK-bound F ridership lately, you know what I'm talking about. I've seen landfill-style garbage heaps, pools of blood (literally), mini-colonies of tubercular street urchins... and this is all between East Broadway and York St! It's really getting scary.
Either way, I bounded down the stairs to grab a bus. I caught a B75 just in the nick, and started to mentally cut my losses. Then we turned off from 9th St via detour, and there went my morning. Our busful of F transplants let out a collective groan, and some idiot squawked, "No, they really are doing street repairs. I've seen it!" Gee, thanks.
Departing time: 6:35 am
Arriving time: 7:55 am
Route: 1 to A to F to B75
TOTAL TRIP: 1 hour 20 minutes
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
Not that I haven't been paying attention, or that nothing's happened. After a promising start (thank G_d nobody took me up on my Knicks "bet"), the Knicks are back at dysfunction-junction. They simply can't do anything right.
I've been begging the Knicks to get rid of everyone except Crawford and Nate for a while now. They almost did it! Except that they forgot about seven guys (including a few of the biggest salary lodestones on Earth), and got rid of Jamal by accident. You could say they screwed up a little bit.
So who'd they get??!! Al Harrington's finally a Knick, even though he showed up completely out of shape (how?!). Oh yeah, they got Tim Thomas back (???) and Cuttino Mobley (who's already trying to cut Eddy Curry in line for a heart transplant up at Columbia/Presbyterian).
As if that's not enough of a mess, Stephon Marbury is now an extra from Salem's Lot, scratching at the Knicks' bedroom window. There was no doubt in anyone's mind (that is, anyone with a mind) that Steph would be as gone as Coney Island by season opener, but here he is. But just a few days ago, he sat and watched his team stagger through a nightmare in Detroit with only seven guys able to play (sounds like an old tour of mine).
Want more? Our top draft pick ("the Italian Scallion") is hurt, after failing to score a single basket this season. Neither "J.J." has played a single minute this year, which some would say is a good thing. My connection for free Knicks box seats is on the rocks, and we don't have cable.
At least King James is on the way, right? We certainly gave him a royal welcome last Tuesday, which was a bit like trying to show your old friend from out of town a good time for the night and watching him screw the daylights out of your wife.
Oh, the profanity:
Stephon Marbury, $20.8M
Eddy Curry, $9.7M
Malik Rose, $7.6M
Jerome James, $6.2M
Jared Jeffries, $6M
Danilo Gallinari, $2.9M
The players above have combined for a total of 26 points this year, with only Malik Rose actually scoring a field goal. That's roughly $53,200,000 (just this year!) for 26 pts, or just over $2 million per point.
TWO MILLION DOLLARS PER POINT.
So, if LeBron is worth as much as the schmucks above, he would earn $4.5 billion as a Knick when he gets here.
That's without inflation.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
Nobody in Queens knows how to drive. This includes those of us that are not from Queens and actually know how to drive, because we instantly forget how to drive upon crossing the county border.
Things start off on the right foot, with a nice version of "Wichita Lineman" done the JT way. The Berkshires barn musta had Espresso spigots in the back, 'cause James revs up an absurd Vegas-style horn-schtick for most of the record's remainder (awful covers of "Hound Dog" & "Summertime Blues", for example). I hope paramedics were on call.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Last night's game ended at 1:47 a.m. for chrissakes! I was all ready to watch this one-- LJ's in bed, I only had one beer, took two naps, I'm good to go. Last I remember was 12:55 or so. I staggered out to take a leak at around 4 a.m. and checked ESPN to see what happened. Kinda funny, since ESPN's one of the reasons this shit's happening so much these days.
I can't take it. At this rate, my son has absolutely no chance of becoming a baseball fan, as he'll never get to watch enough games to know. I'm already worried to death that the Yanks' opening day 2009 will get hijacked and set for an 8:05 first pitch. Add in ceremonies and other bullshit, and the game begins at 8:30 if we're lucky. A couple of my drunk friends will be there instead of me, in my seats.
Here we are with two east coast teams, and nobody gets to watch shit. It's hard enough to watch a series as lousy as this one (come on, really!), but when I'm pretty sure I won't even see the 9th inning... no thanks.
MLB's becoming the "G-String Divas" of the sports world. It's only on after the kids go to bed, all the guys have stupid goatees, and everybody's dumb as shit.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Am I the only one that finds tonight's game completely absurd? Here we are rooting with all our guts for Matt Garza and the fucking Devil Rays. I mean, what the hell has happened here?! Will I be watching a critical game seven next spring between the OKC Thunder and the Celtics? Has our great nation finally lost its last thread of moral fiber? Am I out of Ambien?
Just had a funny image of the dejected Rays shaving their heads tonight, scattering pathetic little piles of Mohawk hair around the clubhouse.
ME: Gimme a ice-venti-redeye-unsweetened-with-room.
HIM: (beep-beep-bebeep) Whoa, you sure you want ice, man? It's cold out there, bro.
HIM: OK. Can I get you anything else?
ME: Yeah, I'll take a sausage and egg sandwich too.
HIM: Are you sure you don't want to try one of our new flatbread focacta sausage blah-blah's instead?
HIM: OK. What's your name?
We'll stop here.
1. If I had the energy and/or desire to talk to an idiot in a green hat at 7:30 in the morning, I wouldn't be at Starbucks.
2. If I wanted to make friends, I wouldn't be at Starbucks.
3. Why did you call me "bro"?
For every 30 minutes we save at places like this, we cost ourselves an hour of existential anguish. At least I do.
As if destroying a season and possibly a generation of pitching phenoms weren't enough, the Yanks are now concentrating on destroying lives.
Joba Chamberlain was arrested this weekend for drunk driving in Lincoln, Nebraska. Bonus charges of open container and speeding were thrown in as well. Joba is currently "lodged" at the Cornhusker Place Detox.
While dragging Joba through humiliating role reversals, "rules" and pitch counts designed to avoid injury, the Yanks have also fashioned a media and money juggernaut out of the young man. Protect and exploit.
This isn't the first (or last) time we've bowed down before the Janus-head. Just as we've attempted to have rebuilding and championship seasons at the same time, the Yankees want Joba untainted and almighty at once, both virgin and whore.
Now he's just plain drunk. You can't blame him-- what else is there to do out there but drink, drive and get pulled over? Especially when your heads buzzing around like Joba's is.
Better get the kid a good fucking lawyer.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Back in Boston, the Knicks did a nice job putting the Celts to bed. If you think that means anything, you're as delusional as the rest of the team.
If you believe what guys are saying, the Knicks will start their season with seven guys on the court. Eddy Curry is calling himself the starting center, even though he's without a field goal this pre-season and has more fouls than points. Curry has been battling a bacterial infection (rumored to be caused by a botched tattoo) and showed up for training camp so overweight that he exploded an exercise ball with his ass (this is true!).
Marbury claims to be the starting point guard for the Knicks, which has yet to be confirmed by anyone or anything. Allan Houston hasn't even made it through a workout.
Anyway, Ronstadt wins by a landslide. My favorites:
LR: "The Ways of Love" (1989)
EH: "Star of Bethlehem" (1977)
NL: "Sail Away" (1979)
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
1. The Rays are getting complacent here. I guarantee they lose the series.
2. I maintain that Boston isn't folding under pressure. They don't seem to be under any pressure at all to do anything.
3. Beckett & Lester are water crackers, indeed.
4. I accidentally streamed the Tampa radio broadcast tonight instead of the RKO. Positively giddy. They alternated between ridiculing smug Boston fans and harassing Kevin Youkilis. I think they were drunk.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
1. The Rays are screwed. I guarantee they lose the series.
2. The heat's on Boston, but that doesn't seem to be a problem. And I don't see Tampa getting loosey-goosey with all those damn cowbells in there. I heard conversations across the fucking dome last time I was there, so the cowbells must be at migraine level.
3. The Rays took pitches at first last night, but abandoned ship when things got choppy. Senor Pena?!
4. I don't even think Boston looks that great, honestly. But neither does anyone else. If Beckett & Lester (sounds like a brand of water crackers) even pitch at 75% strength, this scampi's cooked.
Friday, October 10, 2008
1. As good as they might be, the Rays need to win both games at home. If they don't, I guarantee they lose the series.
2. Shields should come out firing. Get Youkilis and the other meatheads all riled up as soon as possible.
3. Rays need to take pitches. Dice-K's been known to walk a few at the Trop this year (7 in 10 innings).
4. The heat's totally on Boston this time. Ortiz said it himself: "(T)hey have nothing to lose. They don't have any pressure on them. They can go after us because they've already passed what anybody thought of them in the first place. Now, they can do whatever they want. And, they're probably mad at you already? That's the kind of team you don't want to face."
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Palin's hair looks like a fake pineapple.
She just winked. Totally inappropriate.
Who the hell is "Joe Six-Pack"? Does he know "Tommy 12-Gauge"?
This is starting to remind me of the scene in Husbands and Wives when Sydney Pollack's aerobics instructor girlfriend starts blabbing about "crystals and tofu" at a cocktail party.
I think she just dropped her index cards. She looks like she's mentally running through her memorization tricks-- "Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally... Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally..."
Has Sarah Palin ever been to Wall Street? The World of Money at Epcot doesn't count-- although I'm not sure she's been there either.
She seriously can't pronounce the words "tax" and "taxes".
Wow, they sure rushed through the gay marriage portion of the program. At least we learned that Palin has very diverse friends that don't always agree with her.
OK, Biden's gotta shift into high gear right away. Ask her to spell "CONSTITUTION" or something.
Palin's smart to call out Biden on his former quotes on Obama and McCain, since no quotes exist by Palin about politics of any kind before August of 2008.
I like C-SPAN's split-screen approach. We get to watch Biden smirking and Palin staring at her notes.
YES!!! She said NUKE-u-lar!!! AWESOME!!!
So far, Palin gets the report card comment "Works to best of ability".
I'm starting to think Palin recorded the automated touch-tone prompts for my health insurance company. For prescriptions, press one... for billing, press two...
YES!!! She said NUKE-u-lar again!!! She may have even explained quantum mechanics somewhere in there too!
Man, I used to love Alaska. Fuckit, I'm watching baseball...
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
I'm not as giddy about the Mets' demise as I thought I'd be. I guess it makes the Yankee pill a little easier to swallow, but I don't know. The Met season seemed like a wild ride, while ours was more like a road trip where you pull over every 30 minutes for bathroom breaks. We just never got going.
My buddy nailed it, even more than he realized. Only one thing will make this season, the Stadium closure, and all the bullshit tolerable: decent season seats at the new Yankee Stadium.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
1. Claire Kincaid / Abbie Carmichael (tie)
3. Jamie Ross
4. Connie Rubirosa
5. Serena Southerlyn / Alexandra Borgia (tie)
Not surprising, really. I think we'll skip the Favorite Junior Detective poll (Cyrus Lupo?!).
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Pro: convincing manner, silky smooth
Con: chronic hair issues
Pro: the voice that launched a thousand conjugal visits
Con: Jason Sehorn/Republican
Pro: gentlemen prefer blondes
Con: dumb blonde
Pro: mystery woman
Con: a bit creepy
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Lee Jr. received a nifty Yankee Student Planner as we entered the Stadium-- one of the nicer promotional items I've seen. I'm certain that any adult would cherish a gift as nice as this.
This game was the Bizarro World version of the last game I took LJ to. Moose pitched both times we went, but bequeathed a 5-0 deficit upon his team today instead of a 5-0 lead. Jr. was totally mellow last time; today he spanned the behavior continuum from peppy to cranky in a few innings. We bailed out near the top of the fifth, making a pitstop at the kid-friendly Sidewalk Cafe.
Today was a little taste of what it's like to be a fan of a really mediocre team. It almost felt like a Knicks game: lots of side conversations, people leaving early in droves, players chucking the ball everywhere but where they're supposed to... kind of depressing. I didn't even have the heart to argue when the Mizz wanted to leave a bit early. I pretty much agreed with her.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
The Republican National Convention is, um, weird. It has the feel of an overblown school board meeting, or maybe even a Christian phone-a-thon. Hmmm.
The "Country First" signs being waved around look exactly like the "Country Kitchen" logo. Bizarre new-country pitch-corrected songs fill up the interludes, while white people awkwardly clap their hands. Most of the speakers spurt and sputter, making painful bids for applause (pregnant pauses?). Eerie "Sa-rah, Sa-rah" chants creep in and out of earshot. Carrie meets Children of the Corn?
Linda Lingle (!), the Guv of Hawaii (pronounced Ha-vah-eh), is a lunatic. She just made the absurd point that you can fit 250 Delawares in the state of Alaska. I was hoping she'd try for a paradoxical brain-twister about how many Americas you can fit in the state of Alaska. I ended up simply hoping she'd fall into a volcano.
Rudy is absolutely pathetic. At least he used to have some kind of stubborn style back here in New York. Now he's a sad, sad puppet. I can't believe I used to pretend I voted for this asshole at parties.
A "Drill, baby, drill!" chant just drowned out Rudy for a little while there. I honestly thought they were saying "Kill, baby, kill!" at first. Then Rudy parries with, "Who are we offending when we say Islamic terrorists?"
Is there really such a thing as an American "hockey mom" outside of Minnesota?
Rudy's really confusing the crowd now-- they're booing stuff they're supposed to cheer for. Wait, he just got a great, authentic cheer for "We are all Georgians!!!" I don't think anyone has any idea what Rudy's talking about.
OK, here she comes now. Jeez, it looks like half the people are carrying rubber infants. Anyway, Sarah Palin just took the podium. She sounds like a valedictorian accepting her high school diploma.
I dunno, there's something funny about her. I can't quite put my finger on it-- something unsettling... oh Jesus, she's a dead ringer for my ex-wife!
Monday, September 1, 2008
Here's an example of such quality prose, along with a humble "translation":
DJ Paul, "Swervin'"
I got them 28's on the Chevy sittin' so high.
The plastic cup's in the cup holder gettin' dry.
My Chevrolet is outfitted with 28-inch chrome rims, and is unusually elevated above the ground. I have a plastic cup containing a mixture of Tussionex/Promethazine, soda and/or liquor in the car's accessory holder; my cup is nearly empty.
And before I see the bottom I'm a holla at L.L.,
'cause that means I need a R.E.F.I.L.L..
Before my drink is completely finished, I plan to contact "L.L." about pouring another full cup of the Tussionex mixture.
From the bottom to top, nothin' but that pink.
I got a thick bitch playin' with my dick.
My cup is now completely full again. A woman with large, muscular hindquarters and buttocks is digitally and orally stimulating my penis.
And she done got lit, now she curious...
She's looking at my dollop wantin' to take a hit.
The woman arousing me also seems intoxicated, and is staring at my full cup of Tussionex mixture. She may want to taste the mixture.
You know I'm passin' it, long as she acting right.
If she get gonzo, I'm a smack the daylight clean up out the ho...
I have no problem with sharing my drink with the woman, on the condition that she doesn't appear overly intoxicated. If she reaches a dangerous state of inebriation, I may need to use physical force in order to restrain her. It is also becoming apparent that the woman may be a prostitute.
Kick her out the door, call up "Get High" Chris,
go and get some mo'.
After I remove the prostitute from the vehicle, I'll need to contact "Get High" Chris, the local merchant and supplier of illegal bottles of Tussionex/Promethazine. From there, I'll repeat the above process.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
The bullpen stunk (although Bruney's still OK by me), and A-Rod left more guys on base than an army troop transport helicopter.
I guess we just don't win games easily any more. Or, we just don't win games often.
A few good trivia questions were thrown about, including this one:
Several drummers have appeared on album releases by Genesis throughout the years. Name three different non-Genesis releases from 1976 by three different artists featuring three different Genesis drummers.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Yes, I'll be wearing my #45 jersey with a certain pride, nay, swagger tomorrow at the Stadium. Maybe somebody'll even buy me a beer. The bastard's 2-0!!!
The Mz. posed an interesting one tonight: is this Derek Jeter's worst offensive season ever?
The Post reported that the Yanks put Pavano on waivers. What???!!!!! I'm cancelling my season tickets.