Don't Wanna B Dick

Carson Daly's said over and over again that he's not trying to be the next Dick Clark. I think he means he doesn't want to turn into a zombified wraith, doomed to wander this world and the next as an ageless, timeless spectre.

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.

Strip House

A few people have asked me lately, "Lee, why don't you ever write restaurant reviews?"

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!!!"

Merry TeX-Ma$

My nightmares of girls with ponytails wearing "TEIXEIRA" Red Sox jerseys can finally end. Now I can think about Boston fans having nightmares about drunk guys drinking $12 beers in their "TEIXEIRA" Yankee jerseys. And their "SABATHIA" jerseys. I doubt they care much about the "BURNETT" jerseys, but...

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?

Happy Holidays.

Luck of the Irish

Today was a marathon bonding session between father and son (i.e., Mz. went out all day).

We started our day by going out to "run errands". Number one was getting the boy some proper shoes to wear. We have a nifty little kids' place nearby, so LJ and I paid a visit. The sales clerk was a bit weird (some shoes fell off the rack and he shouted, "It's a shoe-i-cide!"), but extremely helpful. He seemed about as relieved to end the sale as I was. The owner (also super nice) creeped over and tried to sell us a $30 pair of socks, but I was already gone. Jr's new kicks on the right:

Lunch was the first of several blunderous moves by yours truly. I got the sliced bananas together no problem, but the frozen chicken 'n squash cubes were more like solving cubics using Cardano's method. Actually, I totally know how to do that, so the chicken cubes were a lot harder than finding the roots of a cubic function.

Anyway, all you have to do is put the damn frozen cubes in the microwave for the right amount of time and let 'em cool off. Of course, I got distracted and burned the shit out of the damn things. Not exactly burned, but really really hot.

I kept LJ at bay with the bananas, and thereby broke a cardinal rule of feeding (anyone!)-- save the dessert for last. He gobbled up the banana chunks like a chimp, but just couldn't get into the chicken. BTW, my wife's chicken and squash is absolutely delicious, so don't even go there. I promptly ate LJ's entire little bowl of it as soon as he foolishly rejected it, in fact. I tossed the kid a couple of cookies and called lunch quits.

We went back to playing in the living room, which I'm quite good at. I managed to finish up the Saturday crossword (OCEANIC!!!) while keeping LJ from ripping our entire internet hookup from the wall. We even caught a bit of the Jets game along the way.

Diaper duty was difficult today. He hadn't crapped in a day, so I faced the big payback. Let's just say Favre's total INT's were nowhere near LJ's total SHT's in that 150-minute span. WOOOOOOOO!!!! I WOULDN'T GO IN THERE IF I WERE YOU!!!!!!

Dinner was a lot worse than lunch. The kid was light in the nap department (real light!) today, so he started winding down a bit earlier than usual. He bitched his way through whatever the hell I was feeding him, and then nodded off a la Scarface at the dinner table. This could get ugly.

I pulled an old trick out of my bag, and brought him in to watch TV for some "cool down time". Thank the good lord, Celtic Woman was on channel 21.

I watched my wee lad slowly fall asleep as he let the gentle tones of Chloe, Alex and Lisa take him to the end of the rainbow. Luckily he passed out before the terrifying violinist Mairead Nesbitt hopped out onto the stage like an extra from Lord of the Rings.

All I had to do was one last diaper change, slather his skin and get him into PJ's. Of course, I picked the smallest and most challenging set of pajamas in the drawer-- the french horn of nightwear. Getting him in there was like squeezing a dog into a golf bag. As always, things worked out just fine.

I'm watching the Giants now.

GallStones

My recent energy surge reminds me of those nutty college days of old. Writing late night charts, saxophone transcriptions, you name it!

I was the inventor of the "GallStones" breakfast, which was quite the fad in our little Massapequa hamlet. You fill a large plastic bowl with Jolt cola (a can, generally), and then cover the soda surface with Sugar Corn Pops. It's crucial to do the cereal last, so it actually floats for a little while. Then grab the biggest spoon you can find, and chow down! I actually knew a crazy violinist that poured his GallStones into a metal pan and ate 'em with a scoop!

Ambient Lawnmower

While listening recently to my friend's spectacular new instrumental guitar record on the train, I revisited my ongoing debate about the nature of ambient music.
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).

Dead Door Heaven

Yesterday I snagged the most coveted spot in the entire MTA subway system. No, I'm not talking about the Railrider's Throne at 116th St., or that warm seat where the fat lady just got up from.

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.

The Train that Time Forgot

Nothing special or unspecial about the start to my morning commute. LJ started waaing at around 5:45, I had him playing in his crib by 6:00, he got bored of that by 6:05, and I was out the door at 6:25.

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

D-pressing

Had a nice morning commute (trans-splendent sleep on C train), but met my maker on the flip-side.

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

Trash, Grab-ass & Big Butts

Wow. After Monday's milk run, the rest of the week was smooth as Sade. Not a single trip more than a few minutes over an hour. These days, that's something.

Notables:
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.

No F'ing Way

As promised, I'll be detailing my daily transit commute on a regular basis (I guess "daily" implies regularity.

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

"I'll never forget the first time..."

If you watch as much lousy TV at weird hours as I do, you're probably familiar with Klee Irwin and his Dual Action Cleanse.

Dual Action Cleanse might be the most horrifying infomercial of all time. The product claims to improve the quality, frequency and comfort of your bowel movements. The host, Klee Irwin, doesn't skimp on details.

Here's Klee's memoir of his daughter's doo-doo:

"I'll never forget the first time I saw my four-year-old daughter's bowel movement in the toilet. It literally scared me. She wasn't more than 45 pounds, but her bowel movement was about as thick as my wrist and about as long as her arm. And I thought, 'Oh my God.' I got scared. I was going to call my wife. I thought, 'How could something that big come of something—a little child—that small. And I thought, I'm six feet tall and I weigh 190 pounds and by proportion to my size compared to hers my bowel movements were very inadequate to say the least."

Yeah, we're all literally scared over here, too. It's literally twice as scary to watch Klee himself talk about this... shit. He looks like Eric Roberts after his "I was burnt in my lab while I spliced my own genes with those of an insect" incident. He makes an uncomfortable subject exponentially more uncomfortable, like a revolting 7th grade health teacher (I really had one of those!).

The testimonials are the best part. Aside from the infamous "John Wayne had 44 pounds of fecal matter in his colon after he died" crock of shit, there are a few spooky stories for sure. One guy in an older incarnation of the program talked about removing a 12-foot worm from his intestine (was it swimming around in his toilet? was it dangerous? can i use it as big fish bait?) after feeling the benefits of the product. Another woman assures us with a smirk that "you wouldn't want to see" the 10 or 15 pounds of fecal load she shed after using DAC.

Even worse is the building caseload against Irwin & Co.-- literally hundreds of complaints have been filed for overcharges, failure to deliver product, and various unauthorized charges to customers' credit cards. And this is assuming that the stuff even works!

Watch the show. I guarantee you'll have no problem eliminating some sort of waste-like substance from your body when it's over.

The $4.5 Billion Man

Forgive me Blogger, for I have sinned... it's been five weeks since my last Knicks entry.

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.

Mascott's the Artist of the Day!

Spin on-line made Mascott their Artist of the Day today.

Looks like the press days of "features a guest appearance by..." are over for yours truly (who is this Rainy Orteca, anyway?!). So it goes.

Either way, Art Project is a great record. It's plain fun to listen to.

Drives Like a Dream...

I don't like this trend.

A rich guy crashes his Land Rover into some other rich people out in the Hamptons. The guy was legally drunk, and an open container of alcohol was found in his vehicle.

Hardly newsworthy, except that the jerk's "blaming" his accident on the two Ambiens he took that night. Most coverage of this and other similar incidents mention Ambien's "bizarre sedative effects" such as "sleep driving".

Are they fucking serious?! IT'S A SLEEPING PILL!!! Who in their right mind thinks they should be driving on sleeping pills?! Not to mention the guy's tanked and balancing a gin & tonic between his legs (and look at that sweater!).

These are the assholes that give perfectly legal drugs a bad name in this country (and specifically that county). What did he think-- his Land Rover would peacefully float away to safety on a light blue and yellow powder-cloud?

Driving around on even one Ambien is a hell of a lot worse than getting behind the wheel with a .05 or .06. Let's put the rolling pillheads in jail and cut the poor saps driving home on two glasses of wine a break for once.

Diaper Genie II

The Diaper Genie II might be the best baby gadget we own, with the possible exception of LJ's fake cell phone. No home should be without one.

The DGII is a masterpiece of design. I won't get into details, but let's just say that it works. Got something better? I don't care-- this thing works.

The only sticky situations so far have been entirely my fault. The first time I tied off a blue bag for disposal, I forgot to "pre-tie" the new bag. We were dumping dirty diapers and wipes into an open plastic bag-tube, or "in one ear and out the other". I never made that mistake again.

I also made the mistake early on of trying to compact a full and finished bag before I tied it off, as if I were squeezing the air out of a sleeping bag. I was whopped in the face with a stink-wind comparable to an Eqyptian tomb excavation. I never made that mistake again.

My most recent screw-up was completely fascinating. When I replaced the DGII refill cartridge, I somehow fed both the beginning and end of the bag-tube through the system. The result was a confounding diaper bag with no beginning and no end, with two distinct outer surfaces. I created a Mobius strip! Either that or some sort of deviated torus... either way, the dimensional poop-paradox was tragically thrown in the garbage, like a dead coelacanth washed up on some god-forsaken shore.

Who knew diaper changing could be so fun??!

Shop Til U Drop

Somebody asked me the other day, "Hey Lee, you ever do anything except watch TV & baseball and listen to music? Like, hang out with your family?!"

Of course I don't just watch TV & baseball and listen to music! I just don't write about other stuff-- it's usually a little boring. But since you asked...

Me, Mizz and LJ headed out to P-Wash LI for the annual Brisket party on Sunday. We're usually among the four or five deadbeats without kids at the event-- now we've been upgraded to the "deadbeats with only one kid" group.

Anyway, Mz Mazz set us up with a Zipcar for the day. I've always insisted we rent strictly from the Hicksville Hertz, which is the cheapest major chain rental within 50 miles. I guess it's a tad impractical at times, but we all pinch pennies somewhere, right?

Zipcar is pretty good. You get free gas, an EZ Pass (which you pay for), and you pick up your car within blocks of your apartment. As we corralled LJ for the epic journey Sunday morning, I stumbled outside to find our car. I'm not even sure that "car" accurately describes our vehicle-- it looked like a prop from Logan's Run. It had enough pickup to get me across the Whitestone Bridge, so good enough.

We decided to take the boy to Babies R Us and Target in Queens on our way out to Nassau Co. There were more babies in the Babies R Us store than there were baby products-- everything was either sold out or damaged. We almost purchased a bathtub stool with no feet. All I found was an Eli Manning mesh onesie that was big enough for Eli himself to wear (calm down, ladies!). I guess we found a few things, but it felt like a bust.

I nearly forgot one of the immutable laws of New York travel:
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.

It didn't help that our second stop was a Starbucks/McDonalds hybrid-location situated inside a triangular traffic circle. LJ was nearly crushed by several drivers mere feet from the entrance. I used the last of my energy to crawl over to Mac's for a giant Diet Coke.

I actually like the CDs for sale at Starbucks. They do a pretty good job (I'm currently negotiating a one-off for my "Krautrock 1972-77" to be released on their label) most of the time. Their new James Taylor album (Covers) is barely a "grande", however. One is immediately and fairly warned by the cardboard display at the counter, which says something about being recorded over "ten blissful days in a Berkshires barn..." Hmmm.
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.

No amount of caffiene could prepare us for the horror known as the College Point Target store. Narrow aisles + giant carts + 10,000 people + nobody working the floor = mass confusion. I was stuck in the clock department for at least ten minutes at one point. Eleven minutes, to be exact.

The College Point Target is almost indistinguishable from Shea Stadium, except that the thousands of kids at Target start crying after only 30 minutes instead of the end of the 7th inning.

The fact that we weren't then going to Ikea to buy bedside tables didn't need to be said out loud. Not sure we would have made it anyway, as I missed two exits and almost trapped us in long-term parking at JFK on our way out east (!). Who needs bedside tables when you don't sleep, anyway!

The Staircase

This 8-part series is absolutely amazing. I guarantee it's the most riveting 6 1/2 hours of TV since the last AL Championship game you actually watched.

Seriously, folks-- this is A+ stuff. Can't say much more without spoiling it... shoot this sucker to the top of yer queue! Yes, even past Mad Men!

Too Little, Too Late

So this year's World Series is looking like the lowest TV ratings of all time (Phils-Rays?? No way!!). Point the finger wherever you like, but the reason is as clear as quartz.

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.

ZZZZZZeke?

This has been a weird, weird, weird couple of days in the news.

A woman in Pittsburgh told police she was attacked and had a "B" carved into her face because she was a McCain supporter and volunteer campaigner. She alleged that the attackers were "teaching her a lesson" by etching the Barack initial into her cheek. Too bad the B is sort of, um, backwards-- as if it were self-inflicted in front of a mirror. The woman confessed to the hoax soon after the story went public, but not before both John McCain and Sarah Palin embarassingly made la charlatane their new "Joe the Plumber".

Ash the Slash was trumped by the "Man in Leno suit commits suicide" story, which conjured up the vision of a guy in a Halloween rubber Leno mask and suit blowing his brains out. I had nightmares for hours last night (also due to the weird Toyota "Saved By Zero" commercial).

But none can touch today's Isiah Thomas saga. Stories varied wildly about a 47 year-old man being picked up from Isiah's home for an apparent drug overdose this morning. Isiah spoke to reporters today and tried to pawn the incident off on his teenage daughter, saying she's "very down right now" but denied any overdose taking place. Then the 47 year-old Thomas added, "None of us are OK." Huh?

No two reports were the same on the fiasco all evening. Culprits ranged from Isiah's daughter to his son to Isiah himself-- one source simply ran the headline Isiah Thomas Dies!

Looks like Zeke took ten Lunestas late last night and passed out. Guess you can't really blame the guy, right? The medical report also rules out Eddy Curry as the victim, as EC's mass index would require a minimum of 75 Lunestas to even put a dent in his pulse.

Couple things are fer sure here:

1. If Isiah had taken ten Ambiens, he might have avoided this ugly mess. Instead of being hospitalized, he just would've woken up on the floor in the middle of an oversized chess match with an imaginary opponent in his trophy room.

2. This explains a lot about last season, like the time Isiah called a timeout with ten seconds left (down by two) and called a non-shooting play. I'm serious.

Rays-Sox VII pre-game

I saved a draft of an "Open Letter to Joe Maddon" that I thought needed a little tweaking. Upon revisiting, I decided to delete the post for fear of being booted from Blogger. I'll file it with my Allan Holdsworth review and my F train piece.

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.

Joba the Drunk

Way to go, Yankees.

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.

Rays-Sox VI pre-game

Since TBS can't find its ass with a fucking ass-detector, I'll switch topics.

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.

Jesus.

Best Neil Young Chanteuse

This was a bit ridiculous. I have a vague (very vague) recollection of a drunk argument with someone about this... what could they possibly have argued against Linda?

Anyway, Ronstadt wins by a landslide. My favorites:

LR: "The Ways of Love" (1989)
EH: "Star of Bethlehem" (1977)
NL: "Sail Away" (1979)

Rays-Sox V

I guarantee the Rays lose the series.

Rays-Sox IV mid-game

I might need to clarify a few earlier points:

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.

Rays-Sox II pregame

I won't be mistaken for Nostradamus anytime soon, but I stand by a few of my comments from yesterday:

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.

Rays-Sox pregame

Who knew we'd be so excited about a Tampa-Boston series? This c__ksucker's been cultivatin' for a while now...

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."

2008 World Series Champs?

The usual funny results for a poll. More than half picked teams eliminated in the first round, and one person switched their pick from Cubs to Rays near the end (infuriating Lou, I'm sure).

More on this later.

Presidential Debate 2008 II

Damn, I missed the first five minutes changing the damn cat litter. Has anyone ever developed "graylung" from inhaling litter smoke?

Sounds like all I missed was Obama telling us we're losing our pensions. Shit!

McCain looks like shit. He even bungled his pet line, "...countries that don't like us very much." Might be the most pathetic line in his arsenal-- sounds like Mr. Rogers.

My buddy Heath predicted the "bait and switch" GOP tactic long ago. Get McCain elected, watch him die, and Palin slips in the back door. We were thinking more along the lines of Newt Gingrich when we discussed it almost a year ago, but...

Wow, Barack looks great against that red floor backdrop. I love it when Biden calls him "Barack"... such a cool sounding name.

McCain can't stand up during his breaks without leaning on the chair in the back. Then again neither can I, but I'm not running for President, am I?

Did you hear that some chick was arrested for stalking Luke Walton? That's one of the weirdest things I've heard in a long time.

McCain: I'm a reformer, "reaching across the aisle", reform, reform, bipartisan, I fought this, I fought that, , drilling, I can fix this, blah, blah blah...

What if McCain falls down? Pulls a Miss America. He just exceeded his one minute limit again, which was a rule that the candidates themselves established. Keep it real, Brokaw!

Obama's going over too! Tom needs a buzzer, gong, hook, something! The candidates established the rules themselves!!!

This isn't anywhere near as fun as Biden-Palin. McCain's trying to attack Barack in his hackneyed style, but falling flat. Barack doesn't seem to be attacking at all. Goddamn hippie!

Tom's just plain pissed now. These guys have about as much regard for time restraints as a being from the fifth dimension. Brokaw just served up a facial on Barack. He should've done a Mutumbo finger-wave.

Barack's distancing himself even further from the average American-- he's speaking too clearly and sensibly about issues that really matter. Joe Six-Pack's gonna hate that kind of "smart guy" talk. He just spelled out a detailed tax plan, complete with numbers and everything. Joe Six is really gonna hate that.

McCain's really hanging in there. Scratch that-- he just marveled at battery powered cars as if he were talking about personal hovercraft machines.

McCain looks like Pauly from Darkman. He's one of the many in the film whose face-mask melts while worn by Darkman himself, and is subsequently discarded onto the pavement.

Barack's on the attack now. I only attack when I have been attacked!

Amurrica, my friends. Amurrica. I'm going to bed.

2008 Vice Presidential Debate

Totally weird already. C-SPAN's coverage is badly out of sync for the first 2 minutes of the moderator's introductory remarks, reminiscent of Ian Holm in Naked Lunch. Hopefully Sarah Palin remembered her bug powder.

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...

Pass the Scalpel

The Yanks are six feet under, the Giants are 3-0... how about our New York Knicks?

I've been so caught up in Thunder fever that I've barely followed the Knicks' doings (I'm still so pissed that I never found an OKC Hornets shirt, even though I looked in Oklahoma City for it!!! Two different times!!!). Clearly the team would continue the post-Isiah restructuring efforts they began off-season, right?

Rebuilding the Knicks will be about as easy as rebuilding Iraq. Curry and Randolph will reprise their post-9/11 "Twin Towers" tragedy, Marbury is still sulking around in his cheap sneakers, and we have another lame-duck top draft pick.

OK, the Knicks successfully removed the cancerous Isiah Thomas from the organization (as well as a cancerous chunk from Donnie Walsh's tobacco-sogged tongue!). They finally got rid of Renaldo Balkman. They brought Mike D'Antoni aboard in a nice move, but what else?!

Unless you count Allan Houston, we don't exactly have a "new-look Knicks" kind of situation here. When Walsh was directly asked what he'd accomplished so far for the team, he replied, "Um, I haven't accomplished anything." At least that's what it sounded like he said.

The Knicks went 2-8 in their first ten regular season games last year. If the Knicks go 5-5 (or better) to open this season, I'll perform a "TBA" drinking feat to show my commitment to my team. I'll give you four choices on my blog poll when we get a little closer.

2008: The Year That Wasn't

Weird season. Likely that the Yanks and Mets will own the two best records among teams that didn't make the postseason. Gonna be extra quiet on the subways tomorrow morning...

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.

Yankees 7, Orioles 3

Too much. Way too much.

Sunday night's big finish at Yankee Stadium was completely overwhelming on every possible level. At least five hundred things happened that each merit their own story. I'll try to focus on twenty or so.

Again, a big F-you to ESPN for forcing the game to start well after 8:00 at night. Phil Mushnick got this one right (for a change!) in the Post today-- this was a complete disgrace. No child (and very few adults) could possibly sit through that six hour ordeal and feel good about it. It just plain sucks.

So I got to our seats at exactly 6:50, which was the supposed time of the unveiling of the "Yankee Artifact". That's not entirely true, as I stupidly sat in the wrong seats for about ten minutes. Either way, the Artifact was about fifteen minutes late and a bit boring. They draped an enormous pennant from 1922 over the black bleachers, and then covered it up. Sentinels were posted on either side of the giant pennant, in case a posse of drunken fans tried to steal it or puke on it. No one dared.

John Sterling and Michael Kay reunited to share emcee duties for the opening ceremonies. They were about as happy to see each other as a snake and a mongoose. I won't say they did a bad job, but the event was paced so poorly at one point that Babe Ruth's introduction on the Diamondvision was completely missed by the crowd. The video screen also gave the impression that Joe DiMaggio played for the 1923 Yankees.

The endless catalogueing of Yankee greats created a bizarre game within a game: which players were worthy of standing ovations and which weren't. Almost no one in our section stood the whole time, so we ended up standing up and sitting down over and over and over... at least forty or fifty times. I felt like a Whack-a-Mole.

The game itself was sort of exciting. Pettitte stunk, which was sort of expected. He looked tired as hell. If he was even one-tenth as tired as I was by 8:30, it's a miracle he could even reach home plate.

The far-and-away highlight of the night was served up by our beer guy in section 32. We bought two Coors Lights, and the guy just gave us the cans. He didn't even pour the beers in plastic cups! It was almost like Derek Jeter winking and flipping a ball into our laps-- it felt that special. I can't wait to tell my kids about it when they get a little older.

Things kinda tailed off after our beercan zenith. There was nothing at all to steal, unless you count toilet paper. Jeter's little speech at the end of the game was pretty cool. The whole night was pretty cool, but just way too much to take in at once. And way too long.

Yankees 1, Orioles 0

Last game ever in my beloved season ticket seats. If we ignore an afternoon where my friend and I crawled around the upper deck like oversized arachnids, it's been a remarkably smooth decade in Tier Reserved 6.

I shared the final Yankee Stadium Saturday with my old buddy Gritty. Grit's a veteran of several legendary days and nights on River Avenue (the "Black Suit Sucks" night, the "Sleeper" night, Piazza Beaning #1, as well as a bizarre bleachers excursion on opium)-- we settled in without a hitch.

Of course, the Yankees hired/asked no one to sing anything. How do they manage to screw that up every time? This is New York City!

We couldn't hit to save our lives all day. As one of our section-mates said, "This is a microcosm of our season." I was tempted to push the "every game is a microcosm of each of our lives" thing, but I held back. I just burped instead.

Hundreds of cops swarmed around the Stadium like giant ants. I might need to reconsider my "souvenir" approach for tomorrow night-- maybe stealing a urinal flush mechanism isn't the best idea. I'll be happy to make it home with my wallet and apartment keys.

Either I'm nuts or 75% of Billy's across from the Stadium is now an Apple Bank branch. They replaced a bar with a bank? What's the point?

Tomorrow night better be good. I want Bernie jamming with the surviving members of the Dave Matthews Band, Giambi arm-wrestling Kevin Millar, free beer, and George Steinbrenner descending onto the field via hovercraft. I also want to be home by midnight.

Law & Order Poll Results

The results are in!!! This thing was down to the wire all the way-- we may need a recount! I'd like a word with Blogger's statistician about his/her methods of rounding decimals, but...

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?!).

ADA Cheat Sheet

By request...

Claire Kincaid
Pro: old school fave
Con: too familiar with Jack McCoy's penal code

Jamie Ross
Pro: convincing manner, silky smooth
Con: chronic hair issues

Abbie Carmichael
Pro: the voice that launched a thousand conjugal visits
Con: Jason Sehorn/Republican

Serena Southerlyn
Pro: gentlemen prefer blondes
Con: dumb blonde

Alexandra Borgia
Pro: mystery woman
Con: a bit creepy

Connie Rubirosa
Pro: currently on the job
Con: may be digitally rendered

The Sexy Six

Don't miss your chance to weigh in on the verdict for our favorite Law and Order Assistant D.A.! These pretty prosecutors will only be up for the rest of the coming week, so vote now!!!

Rays 7, Yankees 1

Took the family unit up to the Bronx for some Saturday baseball. I had a funny feeling it might not be the smoothest outing as we huffed and puffed up 116th St. It's not the heat, it's the humidity.

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.

Republican National Convention

Sorry, but I can't watch this any longer without writing something.

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!

PavanoWatch VIII

Maybe Carl "Cookie Puss" Pavano's running out of tricks...

He was a lot closer to his wild side tonight, walking two and beaning one in 4+ innings. Hughes is earning good grades lately, so maybe they roll the dice with Phil? If the Sox keep winning, don't look for lots of innings from any of the crown jewels.

I'm loving Phil Coke. Can I get a jersey? I think he has Farnsie's old number.

Swervin'

Today's rap artists just don't get enough credit... as writers. Maybe people just don't understand what the hell they're saying?

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.