The Big Payback

I couldn't wait to get home tonight and provide y'all with coverage of LeBron's ballyhooed return to the Quicken Loans Arena.  Let's not forget that the worst decision of LBJ's charm-assed life was broken via live blog right here at Lee's Steez!

So I got Lee Jr. bathed and asleep by 7:55, which should've given me more than ample time (5 minutes) to get my shit together and set up in front of the old boober tuber.  Before I could even find the remote, things began to spiral out of control:
1) The Mz hadn't gotten our little 10-month angel down yet.  In fact, she was wide awake.
2) The Mz was going out drinking with her galpal from Texas.
3) As I thought about how the f**k I was going to get baby doll to sleep, she did a Tommy LaSorda and bonked her head on the hardwood floor.  Bloodcurdling screams followed.

Not to worry!  Being a pro, I had my daughter asleep 15 minutes later, thanks to a little something I like to call "pumped breast milk."  I finally got the game going, and quickly encountered the fourth problem:
4) This game is totally ridiculous.  Cleveland sucks!  Bill Simmons is out of his mind!

You do the math.  Take any Cavs game from last season, and subtract LeBron's points from their total.  Now add his points to the other team.  Cleveland loses every time!!!

More pathetic than the Cavaliers team are their blue-collar, tough-as-nails, salt-of-the-earth fans.  "BETRAYED" signs?  "QUEEN JAMES" t-shirts??!!  Their wife just dumped them and fucked the local Wal-Mart supervisor on national TV and this is the best they can do?!!!!  No wonder he left!  Actually, the best one was a quartet emblazoned with "Le", "B", "U", and "M" sitting in a row.  When the camera finally focused in on them, the "M" guy was slouched down and looking away (probably on his phone), so their message was read by millions as "LeBU"... Wait, an hour later they finally got it right!  LeBUM!  LeBUM!

Hey, I just realized that if Chris Bosh was still on Toronto, he'd be on the elite all-star team of guys that look like what their team is named after.  He looks exactly like a Raptor, or some sort of slender prehistoric reptile.  Other "Namesake" players: Kevin McHale, anyone on the 2001 Blazers... I'm not entirely sure what a "Cavalier" is, but Anderson Varejao might fit the bill.

Only real question here is who's gettin' gaffled and who's doin' the gafflin'?  Did LeBron James and the Heat walk into a psychological and emotional massacre?  Or are the Cleveland fans (of course, we're not actually talking about the Cavs here!) about to take another mega-punch to their collective gut?  Who's taking the hit here?

As always, the answer is US.  We're the stupid asses that buy into this manufactured TNT "drama" again and again.  They're showing clips from the Reggie Miller vs. Knicks/Spike Lee series, leading us to believe that another battle of epic proportions is under way here in Cleveland.  Please!!!  The "choke" wars were actually spawned by exciting basketball, not money and backstabbing.  Wow, things have really gone downhill in this league.

Sippin' On Some Syrup, verse 1 (Pimp C)

According to Google Analytics (whoever that is!), my "Swervin'" song translation is the most popular blog post on Lee's Steez. Literacy is alive!

If Three 6 Mafia is indeed the Chaucer of the Dirty South, then "Sippin' On Some Syrup" is its Canterbury Tales. The task of translating such a masterpiece is both arduous and exhilarating. As ol' G.C. used to say:
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay
Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage
Now po' it up, nigga...


Three 6 Mafia f/U.G.K. - "Sippin' On Some Syrup"

Chorus:Sippin' on some sizz-urp, sip, sippin' on some, sip...
Sippin' on some sizz-urp, sip, sippin' on some, sip... (repeat 8x)
Drinking a mixture of Tussionex, soda, and/or liquor...
Drinking a mixture of Tussionex, soda, and/or liquor... (repeat 8x)

Pimp C:
I'm trill workin' the wheel, a pimp not a simp
Keep the dope fiends higher than the Goodyear Blimp.
I'm a genuinely masculine human being and completely in control of all relationships I hold with the opposite sex, especially while operating a motor vehicle. The narcotics  sold by my syndicate of drug dealers are of such high potency that they often cause sensations of disassociation and vertigo, similar to those experienced by passengers of dirigibles, zeppelins, etc.

We eat so many shrimp, I got iodine poisoning
Fuckin' niggas make me sick with all that pinchin' and bargaining.
Our extravagant lifestyle affords us excessive arrays of appetizers, including raw shrimp and other shellfish-- occasionally our shrimp consumption leads to unnaturally high (but hardly fatal!) levels of iodine in our bloodstream. We have neither the time nor patience to deal with customers that steal from or attempt to haggle with the merchants of our drug syndicate.

You say that you a boss, I ain't believing that shit
You got the funny Geneva watch, with the Ferrari kit.
You claim to hold a position of prominence in your organization, but I haven't seen any evidence to support this. In fact, you've been spotted on numerous occasions wearing gaudy, tasteless Italian watches.

Take that monkey shit off, you embarassing us
I got tha red promethazine, tha orange and yella tuss.
Please remove the aforementioned accessories... you're misrepresenting members of your own crew and your profession as a whole! I'm currently in possession of Codiclear, Tussionex, and other hydrocodone compounds.

Hydroco-done on tha hands-free phone
Tha 84's roam on them blades, 20-inch chrome.
I'm operating a "hands-free" cellular phone, in full compliance with the Tennessee criminal code pertaining to motor vehicles. However, ingestion of the opioid hydrocodone has rendered me unable to operate my car legally. Regardless of my inebriation, my car is outfitted with 20-inch chrome Cadillac wire rims.

If you got 16, you can get a bizzerd
I'm chokin' on that doja sweet and sippin' on that sizzurp.
One can purchase a kilogram of pure, uncut cocaine for $16,000. I'm smoking marijuana and drinking a mixture of Tussionex, soda, and/or liquor.

He's baaaack...

Just when you think good ol' Isiah might disappear for good, he comes back better than ever. He's already scheming his return to the top of the Knicks "organization." Check out these (real!) quotes from his ESPN interview:

"I want to be on the float and I want to get my ring," Thomas said.
A ring around his bathtub?

"I'll put my draft evaluation record up against anyone's."
???

"In Toronto, Indiana and New York," Thomas said, "I've never actually gotten fired for a basketball reason."
My .456 career record as a head coach speaks for itself.

"Six or seven [NBA] teams I advise," said Thomas, who included the Knicks in that group. "I don't get paid for it."
I also advise President Obama, Dick Clark, and Santa Claus. I just don't get paid for it.

"I was below the poverty line," he said. "I swear to you I never thought I would see 20 years old."
Or 20 wins in one season!

"But I wasn't there. I wasn't her [Anucha Browne Sanders's] boss. She didn't report to me. I worked in Westchester, she worked in Manhattan. I would say hello to her at the games..."
Hello dolly!

"That's a problem with being a visionary," Thomas said. "You're way too far out, and by the time it catches up, people will hack you to death."
Hold on, are we talking about being a visionary or ODing on Lunesta?

"Chuck Daly begged me not to take the Knick job," Thomas said. "He said, 'You can't fix it. You'll probably fix it for somebody else.'"
We all begged you not to take the job!

"I do find it ironic that we all ended up here in Miami instead of us all ending up in New York," Thomas said. "But it's a four-year deal."
Who's "we?" You, Snooki and Vinny?

Knicks 120, Bulls 112

Wow, I'm actually sitting here at home and WATCHING THE KNICKS!!! I'm so happy that my aching balls don't even matter. I'm relaxing and watching the Knicks.

I was all set to watch 'em the other night, and the game was actually cancelled due to an asbestos hazard at MSG. Jeez, can these jerks do anything right? Utter ineptitude.

This is what I consider to be an ideal Knick game. They're up by 15 with less than six minutes to go... perfect!!! Chances are about 50/50 they win or blow it, which equals absolute excitement in my book. Sort of like turning on a Mets game with NYM up four runs in the 7th inning... this is gonna be good!

Shaw 'nuff, we're down to single-digit lead with about three minutes left. I got a single digit for ya, ref!

They usually win these kinds of games, but it ALWAYS goes down to the wire. But maybe things are different now... these are the no-luck no-look don't-look "new-look" Knicks we're talking about here. Definitely a new look to me-- I don't even know who some of these guys are! When Danilo Gallinari is the most famiiiar guy on the team, you know something's weird.

Well, looks like they're holding the lead. This Knick team might crawl out from under the curse of the new millenium, but they have the personality of a moving company. At least they'll win a few more games this way.

Slice of Life (part two)

[Slice of Life (part two) is the second part of Slice of Life (part one)]

Esai prepared the first injection, and I began to wonder why I didn't choose the "no-scalpel, no-injection" method over the suddenly barbaric-sounding "no-scalpel" method. The "no-shirt, no-shoes, no-service" method seemed appealing as well, but it was too late to stop now. I mean, my balls were already shaved!

The first injection felt like someone stapling my balls to either a wall or a 7-sheet stack of paper. The only point of reference I had (since I've never accidentally stapled my balls to anything) was Wes Craven's "I want to hear you scream!" scene, although getting dumped out of the back of a truck in Port-au-Prince wearing only a pair of blood-stained briefs seemed a bit far-fetched at this point.

True to Dr. S's word, the local anesthesia kicked in right away (thank Jesus!) and the second shot felt a lot like the first one (for some reason, he had to do everything twice!). In hindsight, it would be more accurate to describe the pain as someone stapling your balls to either a wall or a 7-sheet stack of paper, and then magically pulling a "just kidding!" moment out of their hat five seconds later. Not so bad at all.

Doc asked me how I was doing, and I tried to remember some of the witty stuff I'd prepared in the waiting room... something like, "Hey, the Valium really helped that gash!" or something unintelligible in a pseudo-castrata voice. I opted to croak, "Okay."

The rest was standard fare. Fix the vas deferens, shift the clamp, blah blah blah... Once the drugs kicked in, the whole experience was about the same as a bad freshman-year hook-up: lots of mildly painful tugging, some awkward silences, and blood everywhere a nasty headache. Dr. S did slip in a funny steakhouse reference while he "cooked" the tip of each vas, but that was it for the jokes. I staggered over to my clothes, grabbed a complementary apple juice, and wandered out into the hallway.

My better half met me in the waiting area, where some sort of terrorism plot was being reported on CNN. We then debriefed with the good doctor as a couple, which was actually quite helpful. Doc told my wife I had a "beautiful scrotum" and assured her that my semen would "look, smell. and taste the same" as it did before the procedure. I only found these comments mildly disturbing for some reason.

On our way out, we were given a goodie bag containing two plastic lab cups to be used for sperm evaluations after "six weeks or 15 ejaculations, whichever comes first." I couldn't handle this kind of math at the time, so I focused my attention on keeping my apple juice cup separate from the cumshot cups.

I brought my bill to the cashier, who promptly charged me double the amount I was promised by the doctor. I was at a somewhat compromised position to haggle, seeing as the procedure was already completed. Luckily, all parties honored our original agreement and the fee remained severed in half. At least for 15 ejaculations or the end of my AmEx billing cycle... whichever comes first.

Slice of Life (part one)

Hey readers!!! Reports of my e-death are mostly exaggerated. Truth is, I've been spending just about every waking (and sleeping!) moment working on a collaborative effort to solve the Collatz Conjecture with a team of Turkish mathematicians. Our parity sequence approach line is looking bleaker and bleaker, and Aztük-Bey (our team leader) is about to throw in the proverbial towel. I haven't slept in fucking months.

I emerged from my math-cave Thursday morning, and saw the letters "VSC" on the wall calendar for Friday the 29th. First thing came to mind was another reunion bash for the old college intramural soccer squad, but then it hit me: THE VASECTOMY!!! I set this thing up over the summer... I guess time flies when you're mapping residue classes with a bunch of crazy Turks.

I dropped Jr. off at pre-school this morning and more or less dicked around on the Upper West for a few hours (Verizon store, Modell's, Rite-Aid, etc.) until it was time to head East. I figured I'd look over my literature on vasectomies while the M72 seeped crosstown, but it was tough to keep a low profile when every page of the info-packets I had featured giant diagrams of penises.

At least I knew I was going to see the right guy. Dr. Shel Silverstone is a world-renowned walnut whipper with an office right here in Manhattan, and a helluva good guy too. During our initial consultation, he told me I had a "perfect scrotum" and called the surgery-to-be a piece of cake. And when I found out my insurance wasn't gonna cover a red cent of the procedure, Dr. Silverstone sent me this email-- "I'll cut it in half..." Funny guy.

Before I knew it I was donning a hospital gown and wondering what the hell I was doing. The decision to sterilize wasn't a difficult one, considering the hundreds of sexual partners immense challenges we're facing raising just two kids; it's hard to imagine doing any more than we already are. As I've said many times, two's my limit on schnitzengruben.

I was led into the operating room by Dr. S's assistant, who was a dead ringer for Esai Morales. As Esai shaved my balls, he asked if the music piped into the room was OK. Something from the closing credits of a Shirley MacLaine romantic comedy wasn't really doing it for me, so I asked him what else they had. He said, "Classical and Sinatra," which sounded even worse, so I settled for Tesh-Grusinesque garbage. I was about 30 minutes into a Valium, and actually considered digging out my iPod and hitching up E'G's Angels in the Architecture for all to enjoy, but had a horrifying vision of Moraz/Bruford's "Split Seconds" startling Silverstone into lopping off my jimbo.

Esai prepared the first injection, and...

TO BE CONTINUED

Curtis Spurts

Wow, ESPN really went for it with this story. We're just thankful they cropped the photo above the waist...

Yankees 9, Mariners 5

Sorry for the extended absence. I've been so busy stockpiling prescription drugs in preparation for my "Eddie Van Halen vs. Allan Holdsworth" piece that I just haven't had the time to write.

I attended Saturday's contest against Seattle with noted polymath and beer snob enthusiast Charles Simone. Lee Jr. gets along real well with pretty much all of my friends, but the kid seems to have a special bond with Chuck. Probably due to CS's clutch babysitting performance last summer while Mz whisked me across town to get my bladder drained, but who's keeping track?

We got to the game just on time, and realized that this might be our tenth year going to Yankee games together. Both being suckers for tradition, we indulged in our usual fare: drinking, gambling, and trivia.

I immediately presented Charles with a choice that would govern our beer consumption for the afternoon. We would either
1) drink a beer every time the lead changed (including the first run of the game, but excluding ties), or
2) be required to preface any beer order made with the word fucking, i.e. "I'll have two fucking Guinnesses, please."

Charles wisely chose #1. We also made our picks for the "dollar game"-- a simple system of bonuses and penalties based on hitting performances by several players of our choice. Within minutes we were frantically exchanging singles and ordering drinks with Javy serving up deep dongs to Ichiro and Russell Branyan, whom Chuck had on his dollar payroll. Like the morning after an ill-advised hookup, things were looking ugly real fast.

Turned out to be a false alarm, as we virtually broke even on our wagering, the Yanks came back in spades, and we were restricted to only two beers for the afternoon. Kept in check by circumstance, we resorted to a Bacchanalian festival of baseball and music trivia.

Chuck struck first by requesting the only active pitchers residing within the top 100 of all time in career strikeouts. I made it with a few nice hints, but wilted under CS's tough follow-up (active sac bunt career leaders), even with a few nice hints.

I was dreadfully underprepared in the trivia department, but I managed to slap together a couple of nifty "discussion" pieces. Me and my pals have gotten lots of mileage out of these before (bands named after non-vocalists, "classic" bands with more crappy releases than good ones, etc.), sometimes for weeks on end. We began with one that seems idiotic at first: the eight best metal bands of all time.

Maybe we should have anticipated that the toughest part would be defining "metal bands." Or, distinguishing metal from "hard rock." I honestly can't remember what Charles and I actually settled on that day, but here's how it looks after a few tweaks:

1. Black Sabbath
2. Metallica
3. Led Zeppelin
4. AC/DC
5. Iron Maiden
6. Slayer
7. Judas Priest
8. **Motorhead

**The original list had Nirvana on it, which was ruled inadmissible via the very argument I presented in defense of Kurt Cobain. CS would've liked to see Kiss, Motley Crue or possibly Van Halen in the 8-spot, while I was exploring absurd alternatives like Def Leppard or Cream.

Neither of us were comfortable with the inclusion of Zeppelin or AC/DC, but can you really turn your back on "Black Dog" or "Hells Bells"? Honestly, we just couldn't come up with anything better.

I later consulted one of the only people on the planet I'd actually listen to on this one (along with Pete C in AZ, my kids' babysitter, and a guy named Al I went to high school with)-- my buddy Grit. I hope he doesn't mind me printing his excellent choices:

1. Black Sabbath
2. Metallica
3. Kyuss
4. Iron Maiden
5. Motorhead
6. Judas Priest
7. Slayer
8. Anthrax/S.O.D.

We also debated songs whose live version is better known than the studio version but I really don't want to get into this one right now. I'm going to bed.

Foot, this is Mouth.

Some of my favorite "misspoken" gems from this summer:

Tim McCarver on Yankees' treatment of Joe Torre.

Dwyane Wade on Miami Heat hype.

Dr. Laura on, umm, race.

Hey, at least they're all sorry.

Masters of Reality

"100% fake." (her quote)

A totally stoned Arnold Poindexter once queried, "Would you rather live in the ascendancy of a civilization or during its decline?" A not-quite-as-stoned Lee Mazzola now replies, "Both."

If you're already bitching about Mad Men or trying really hard to spread the word about Treme, you're pissing on the wrong tree. This Golden Age of TV we now live in allows us never to be disappointed in a show again... just watch something else! Including reruns (excluding on-demand and DVR, of course), I claim there are a minimum of fifteen things worth watching during prime time on a nightly basis (and that's just standard cable!).

Work of Art: The Next Great Artist (Bravo)
I neither watch nor care about the chef shows, but how many elimination- based contests actually judge entrants based on a creative product? A nice wet spot on Chad Johnson's sheets doesn't really count as a creative product, although I guess I'd have to see the actual stain to make a final decision.
Anyway, contestants on Work of Art must create a piece each week according to a given theme and time restraints. The artists range from dorky hipster painters to pretentious designers to headcase photographers to trainwreck sculptors, and every possible combination of the descriptions I just listed. Contestants' work is critiqued each week by irritating gallerists, smug art critics, loathesome "enthusiasts," and a variety of smarmy artists themselves. It should come as no surprise that the show is dorky, pretentious, irritating, smug... you get the picture. What's surprising to me is how fun it all is! Plus, the winner gets their own show at the Brooklyn Museum and $100,000 worth of magic markers. There's something fascinating about watching people create half-baked (not to mention totally rushed) original pieces as part of a competition. I haven't been this excited since the Vancouver Olympiad's opening ceremonies!

Jersey Shore (MTV)
Haters can go smush themselves, and the indifferent don't matter anyway. Get over yourself and enjoy something that's undeniably hilarious and just plain fun. At least show some R-E-S-P-E-C-T-T-T for JWowww, who makes Xena the Warrior Princess look like Dora the Explorer.

The Real Housewives of New Jersey (Bravo)
I was a bit late turning on to this show and the Housewives thing in general. It's as if I'm hearing "Whole Lotta Love" having never heard Led Zeppelin before in my life; a bit embarassing but ultimately mind-blowing. To be honest, I got into RHNJ by way of Bethenny Getting Married?/RHNY, so it's more like discovering Zeppelin only after purchasing The Principle of Moments (hey, I'm sure it's happened to at least one person!). Either way, another masterpiece of stereotypes in the tradition of great American literature and film.

Ochocinco: The Ultimate Catch (VH1)
One of the more bizarre programs you'll have the misfortune of watching. I'll just refer you to the "summary" provided on the actual VH1 website. Here's a little nibble (emphasis mine):

Just like in football, before you make the team you have to prove you rank high enough to make the rooster. So, before these woman get a chance to play in Ocho's tournament they are going to have to show him and a few of his NFL colleagues what they're made of in a mini tryout camp.

The show's math is even worse, as the harem has too many cincos and only a few ochos. Trainwreck TV.

Exercising While Intoxicated

Readers send me links, pictures, stories etc. all the time-- there's no way I could possibly get to all of them. Here's a nice one courtesy of one Señor Pants, along with some thoughts by yours truly.

The piece I'm talking about is from a fun new blog about drinking. Specifically, competitive drinking. The author performs a feat of epic proportions that you'll just have to read about yourself.

Here are some kinda relevant drinking feats of my own (or at least ones I've heard about):

1. The 100 Club - I'm not a member, and I've never even tried it. The idea is to drink 100 beers in a weekend, 72 hours worth (varying accounts might have you believe 5pm Thursday to midnight Sunday, but I think 72 hours is fair).

The regulations for this exclusive club are a little unclear in other areas as well. Are you allowed to puke? One friend of mine insisted, "NO WAY." Of course normal bathroom visits should be allowed, but what about secret vomits? We initially agreed that one plastic garbage can (we lived in a dorm!) in the middle of the room was fair for all functions including hurls, and then thought maybe we should be able to #2 on our own. I don't see how you could police the throw-up rule without major problems. Oh, and no drugs allowed.

God knows we talked about this one enough back in college. Of course, we over-analyzed this one to death, and came up with several approaches. I was always a "boot-and-rally" theorist-- drink until you puke or pass out, someone wakes you up, repeat, etc. Trying to plan it out seemed ludicrous. My friend claimed he had a "pacing plan" that should work, but it was never taken seriously by anyone. Wouldn't the 100 club have to be boot-and-rally, no matter what?

Didn't matter, 'cause it never happened. Our bickering about the rules slowly gave way to reasons why there was no possible way we could do it, except our reasons never included our drinking abilities. First it was financial... "There's no way we can possibly afford to buy 300 or 400 beers at one time!" That was sort of true, but not really. Then it became, "There's no way we have time to do this! When can we find 72 hours in a row with nothing to do except drink?!" This was outrageously false. We were able to find hundreds, maybe thousands of consecutive hours to do nothing but drink on a regular basis, but on no occasion were 100 beers consumed by one person during a 72-hour interval within said benders.

Finally, we settled for "I'll bet you so-and-so could do it." Arguing about who could or couldn't do it was as close as we ever got.

2. I lost a Monday Night Football bet once and had to drink two 64 oz. Colts in 20 minutes. I lost another bet around the same time and had to drink a warm six-pack of something nasty in some short amount of time, which didn't go well at all. People stopped making "the loser has to drink..." kinds of bets with me a while ago, and not because I'm such a prolific drinker.

3. This isn't really the same as what dj tennessee did, but I once sprinted about 20 blocks down Lenox Ave drunk on at least 13 beers in the middle of the night. The Miracle Mile, as I called it the next afternoon.

Stupid Subway Tricks

Riding the subway gets pretty boring after 5000+ swipes per year, so why not have some fun while you're at it? Here are some good, clean ways to help pass the time:

1. Stand on the edge of the platform and look frantically down the track for the next train (like everybody else), except look in the wrong direction. It's even funnier when you make exasperated gestures, complain loudly, etc.

2. Blab away on your cell phone in between stations, even though no reception exists at all. Especially nice in tunnels between Manhattan and Brooklyn, or especially long express stretches (59th to 125th on A train).

3. Rehearse dialogue from an imaginary screenplay, loudly and by yourself. The lines should be some combination of absurd, pretentious, offensive, and intermittently en français.

4. Sketch the person sitting across from you, and look as serious as you possibly can. The sketch must never be seen by anyone.

5. Lift extremely light weights repeatedly, or jog in place, or perform some other form of totally lame exercise on the train. Breathe heavily and moan a lot.

6. Work on the NY Times crossword in a very obvious and obnoxious way. Be sure to make annoying comments to yourself, chuckle a lot, and look around the train for approval. This is really funny on Mondays.

7. Scrawl random mathematical calculations on several pieces of paper, with an extremely worried look on your face. Accompany your work with visual measurements of various parts of the subway car (height of doors, people's feet, etc.).

8. Ask the person next to you for directions to part of New York that is absolutely as far as possible from where the train is currently headed. A remote and potentially dangerous location is preferable.



Lemme know how it goes!

The Decision

8:53 - Folks, I'll admit I'm a little excited about this. I just turned the TV on and quickly found the hilarious info blurb about tonight's program on ESPN: "LeBron James announces whether he'll stay with the Cavaliers or go to another NBA team." This is absolutely the most informative and factually correct INFO box Time Warner Cable has provided since we re-subscribed to cable.

8:58 - This is the biggest load of bullshit I've ever seen in my life. Jeez! They just showed the election-style map with the current polls, and Miami leads with 42%. Knicks are at 15% and the Nets aren't even on the map.

9:00 - Nice fucking shirt, LeBron! Seriously. I like that party shirt!

9:01 - Is James Earl Jones narrating this thing? Wait a sec, the show just started, and it's the exact same bunch of nimwits sitting around (Wilbon, Stuart Scott, one of the Barrys, some other moron)! A seamless transition from nothing to nothing.

9:04 - Wow, the Nets really are out of this? Hey, at least they just picked up Travis Outlaw!

9:05 - They're showing a video montage designed to convince us that LeBron is "the most coveted prize in this year's free agent class." No shit!!! Is there a Josh Childress Decision airing on TBS tonight that I didn't know about? I'm two seconds away from switching to Bethenny Getting Married? for Pete's sake!

9:10 - I was kinda hoping they might play "Heroin" in the background: "I have made... very big decision..."

9:14 - At 8:00 AM EST tomorrow morning, I'll announce whether I'm serving Lee Jr. a waffle, a bowl of oatmeal, or possibly yogurt.

9:17 - Yes!!! The Knicks have climbed to 15%!!!

9:18 - OK, let's be serious for a minute. This is total bullshit and insulting to sports fans of all kinds. I propose a boycott of ESPN and the NBA (unless he picks the Knicks) for this offensive charade. I'm not kidding. I'm never watching Sunday Night Baseball again.

9:22 - I can't believe they haven't played "Split Decision" by the Crowes yet! That's a slam dunk, right?

9:23 - Here we go, the actual interview. The word "process" was just used five eight nine ten eleven times in 20 30 40 seconds.

9:26 - "Decision" is gaining on "process" as of ten seconds ago. I'll keep you posted.

9:27 - FFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKK YYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm such a stupid idiot. Really.

Germany-Spain live blog!

Today's post is an exciting one... the first "voice recognition" live blog on Lee's Steez!

If all goes as planned, the new software (purchased by my intern, Michelle) should convert my running commentary into text, which will then automatically be posted at halftime. I'll be reporting via headset mic, as my schedule today doesn't permit me to sit at a computer like a lazy scumbag.

Let's see how it goes!!!
























































































































































































































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







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














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
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


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






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













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















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






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













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














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






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















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













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













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Uruguay-Netherlands live blog!

This could be the shortest live blog since I attempted to give a minute-by-minute account of me listening to Tangerine Dream on sleeping pills (this was never published). I just got both kids down for their afternoon naps-- Jr seems solid  but Li'l Mz could wake up at any minute. I think they're (whoever "they" are) renovating the apartment across from us, or maybe even demolishing it. It's kinda noisy.
Note that I'm listening with the sound off, so I'm missing all commentary. If they say, "Once again, we remind you that an enormous spacecraft is still hovering over the stadium... we've been given specific instructions by the aliens that we are only to talk about the E.T. visit; we cannot film anything..." then forgive me if I don't report on it.

1.55 - So the Netherlands are orange, right?

3.02 - Nice move by the Dutch guy that looks just like Rob Corrdry!

4.29 - Man, I wish Uruguay's abbreviation was "URI." Then the score would say "URINED."

8.47 - I'm so psyched to see that model run naked in the streets if Uruguay wins!!! Maybe Laura Posada or Minka Kelly will try a stunt like this in October...

10.54 - The names on the backs of Uruguay's jerseys seem to be written in "Menu" font, which I can't find anywhere on my computer.

13.28 - Man, I meant to ask Grit about this but I forgot... we used to hear stories about players peeing out the sides of their shorts during matches if they really had to go. At least that's what our coach used to say when we'd ask to come out of a game so we could go to the bathroom.

16.30 - That always happens... a guy tries to make one fake too many, loses possession, and immediately trips the guy that stole the ball..

17.38 - WHOA! What a shot! Count it!

20.01 - The Dutch electrical tape-style numbers on their jerseys are ridiculous.

HT - At least we didn't miss much! Principessa woke up at 20.03... I knew I should have had my intern transcribe this. So a guy got kicked square in the head (right off the LIJSL soccer camp video Why bicycle kicks are dangerous), Uruguay scored a neat outside shot, and a stupid commericial for something called The Expendables aired ("together... for the first and only time..." - isn't anything happening for the first time necessarily also happening for the only time to date?!).

75.30 - Sorry about the lapse. I missed two goals, although I was in the room for one of 'em. I've been enjoying the play of Dirk Kuyt, who strongly resembles a cross between a Johnny Be Good era Anthony Michael Hall and the weird freaky guy from The Hills Have Eyes. Hey, they actually were in a movie together...

89.04 - OK, this one's about over. I'm still considering jetting down to Borders at Columbus Circle for Kendra's book signing. I wonder how many people show up with copies of Kendra Exposed?!! One time I showed up at a signing with SHIT! Uruguay just scored! I'm not sure how much SHIT! It's 102 degrees out!

Hopefully I'll be back tomorrow. Dag!

World Cup predictions

I totally missed the cutoff for my picks last round, but I swear on the Stables of King Augeas that I had Brazil, Uruguay, Germany, Spain...

So here goes:
Netherlands 2, Uruguay 1
Germany 3, Spain 1

Germany 2, Netherlands 0

Nitty from the Gritty

Continuing our World Cup 2010 coverage on Lee's Steez, here's an interview with our favorite Brooklyn soccer afficionado. Grit was kind enough to squeeze this into his busy schedule before tomorrow's quarterfinal matches...


Lee: Give us a quick profile of yourself as a soccer fan.

Grit: I was partnered with a Man-U-supporting resident alien for about 12 years. Caught the World Cup bug in '98. Lived in an immigrant-rich part of Brooklyn throughout the 00's, regularly waking up at 7 a.m. to watch live matches on Fox Soccer Channel and Goal TV. Watched nearly all of the '02 World Cup even though it was on in the middle of the night (when it was over I had jet lag though hadn't left home). Traveled to Europe (not Germany) to enjoy the '06 action without so much time shift.

Let's just say I know the difference between Xavi and Xabi Alonso, and what it means to win "the treble."


You can’t walk down the street without hearing someone complain about the officiating this year. Is this a product of better replay technology, the fact that soccer’s fan base is expanding, or do the refs just really suck in this tournament?

Nothing has changed except more Americans are watching. Every American must go through this pain to adapt to football (I'll call it that to distinguish from MLS) or just go back to ignoring it. You see, Americans expect fairness. Other countries cry when they lose on a bad call, but only we cry and also demand a permanent fix. I'm sure it looks ridiculous to the rest of the world -- especially to those who know that American sports also suffer from horrendous officiating errors and biases, despite elaborate efforts that cause absurd game delays. The notion that more rules make sports more fair sounds to the rest of the world like a call for more lawyers in sports. I sympathize with the World's point of view, though will point out that technology improved tennis, and that the England-Portugal quarterfinal in Euro '04 was the most excruciatingly unfair sporting event ever staged. My solution was to forever despise Portugal and quit supporting England, which is working out nicely.


For our American readers, can you give us a cultural reference point for Wayne Rooney, if such a thing exists?

You have to go back a bit, before all American sports stars were media coached. I'll say Moses Malone. Huge talent, unfathomable aggression but tough to hide the extent to which focus on the game and a very early arrival to the front of the pro stage have impeded the development of mature human being. It looks like Wayne is being better taken care of, but if they put the mic in his face after games it wouldn't be as pretty as with Ron Artest.


I was thinking that Brett Gardner might make a decent soccer player: low center of gravity, inhuman speed, dorky voice, etc. Are there any current New York Yankees that could hack it on the pitch?

All the Latin-American-bred players who are smaller than Orcas (i.e. not Sabathia) probably played into adulthood and are reasonably good. The skill set is so elemental -- speed, eye/hand coordination, balance, discipline to practice -- that it makes sense to assume that almost any great American athlete who can run and is not a specialist at some non-athletic skill (i.e. not Nick Johnson) could have been a great footballer. A-Rod and Jeter for sure, Gardner, why not?

Don't forget that Iron Maiden and their road crew were a champion team. Not sure how that's relevant, but don't forget it.


The Florida Marlins succumbed to World Cup fever a few weeks ago by equipping their fans with vuvuzelas (officially promoted as “Marlins Air Horn Night”), resulting in one of the craziest games I’ve ever watched on television. Do you think the “hell-horns” could possibly expand into American popular music anytime soon (Dave Matthews Band, Jay-Z, etc.)?

Don't forget that the samba part of "Fool in the Rain" was inspired by Argentina's cheering section in the '78 World Cup.


Any predictions for the quarterfinal matches and beyond?

A Uruguay-Paraguay final would be too sweet for words, but I'm not holding out hope. I will hold out hope for Ghana, though they're not good enough (i.e. I will hope they triumph via flukes, chokes and bad calls). Anything can happen, but the safest money is on the one team with international superstars actually cooperating on the pitch, which is Argentina.

One last thing I want to say: I can't praise highly enough ESPN's decision to staff English announcers for their matches, and I can't denigrate vociferously enough ABC's decision to put an asshole American in the booth for last Saturday's disappointing round-of-16 US loss. I sincerely believe we might have fallen because this dipshit's endless speculations on the feelings of the players, especially late in the "psychological game," were so alien to the manly and action-oriented nature of football that the sport's ecosystem rejected our team's noble effort.

World Cup!

Shep Buckingham

I apologize in advance for my weak coverage of this year's World Cup. I mean, I meant to apologize in advance a month ago but was too busy.

Either way, I'm hoping to make amends with posts-a-plenty for the remainder of the tournament. If you're thinking, "What the hell does Mazzola know about soccer, anyway?"-- think again, my friend. This is no kid and I'm not no bandwagon soccer hipster... I know what I'm talking about. I grew up on Long Island, for Pete's sake! I missed a week of school in the third grade to play soccer down in Coral Gables, Florida. I can't even count the number of times I played in "The Robbie" up in Canada, including one time when my host family practically lived in a school bus with their name painted on the side. I was at the legendary "Europe vs. the Rest of the World" match at Giants Stadium, along with about 75,000 other people. I played in Belgium when I was thirteen years old and got wasted on Jupiler and Stella Artois. I saw Steve Zungul score at least 75 goals for the Arrows in Uniondale. I kicked the ball around with Franky Vercauteren before an Anderlecht match. I took a stiff shot to the nuts blasted by none other than Werner Roth at a summer program at Hofstra. I had the high score on a Ms. Pacman machine at Shep Messing's complex for a month or so. I know what I'm talking about.

Stay tuned for more!

Sonic Terrorism