Because I Like to Drill Holes

Like the intersection between football and baseball season...

2006-08-16T13:00:00.000-07:00

It's too hard to maintain multiple sports fantasy teams. And it's too hard to maintain multiple blogs.

I'm just gonna cross-reference--for now--to this one:

http://www.myspace.com/32465182

The awesome, the good, the bad, and the ugly

2006-07-19T17:53:00.000-07:00

The Awesome
They finally put the kit kats in a lower tier in the vendint machine at work. Now when they fall, they don't run the risk of snapping. And the tragedy is that I'm leaving in 2 weeks. See, this is a PERFECT example of a superior alternative to any one of the vinettes in the Alanis Morrisette song, Ironic. Of allll the ironic things in the world, she picked the most banal, inconsequential, and unpoetic. 10,000 spoons when all you need is knife?? It's not like that Twilight Zone when the dude breaks his glasses right as he's about to start reading all the books. That is heart-wrenching. The idea of someone with a surplus of spoons is not. Not to mention 99% of the issues Ironic pitches are not, in fact, by definition ironic. They're just welcome to the suck situations.

This is the type of stuff I think about when the yankees have day games, and I have nothing to do when I get home. That, and measuring the risk-reward ratio of plugging in old school Nintendo. The noise when mario goes down a pipe still gives me old-fashioned butterflies. But I worry about how I will feel about myself after the game is over. And I'm sitting in front of my tv with nothing but the Hills on DVR to distract me from the fact I'm 25 years old and still jerking a video game controller around maniacally.

I gotta go return some video tapes.

The Good:
The Hills is on tonight.

The Bad
The Yankees lost.

The Ugly
Fat people who wear flip flops
The following line in today's NY Post: "A-Rod didn't start due to a bruised left big toe."

The Worth Mentioning
Melky Cabrera
Aaron Guiel
Nick Green
Andy Philips

The Yankees buy their team. Read that sentence again.

Or consider that Aaron Guiel was dropped from the Kansas City Royals. And so the Yankees, driving around in their giant sheepdog van, pulled over to the side of the road, Torre screamed, "PICK HIM UP!" and then Guiel joined in a rousing rendition of MOCK! SI! ING! SI! BIRD! SI!

They're magic pinstripes. Yankees bought their team from the same guy who sold Jack his beanstalk beans.

I'M BACK

2006-06-15T19:01:00.000-07:00

I was on brief hiatus. But baseball season just makes me giddy. And also, I wanted to post because I made my parents a sign to bring to the yankee game. (THEY ASKED ME TO MAKE ONE AND THEY'RE COOL.) And i'm at work, and all of sudden my cell phone and work line start ringing, and it's my sisters who are watching the game, to tell me Mom and Dad are pretty much on tv, holding up this ridiculous sign that reads MELK AND ROOKIES HIT THE SPOT.

Boy was I proud. Whenever you got Yes network announcers commenting on your parents, you know it's gotta be a good day. I taped the game, so I just watched it and lost it basically. I took a picture of the tv with my camera phone. I'm pretty gangsta I know.

Ok back to the game. I like baseball a whole lot.

I AM SO SORRY

2005-08-30T16:23:00.000-07:00

But i really did have a shitload going on...

But listen. This is really important.

I desperately need some Yankee fan support here, so click here, it's not porn or anything, it's just something every Yankee fan should do to ensure Bosox doesn't kick our ass again

Okay

2005-06-06T00:17:00.000-07:00

Well. I'm tentatively back. Suffice to say I've been back home (as in parents' home) for a little bit because of some family emergencies. I'm going back to work Monday, feel like I havent been in the office for like years. Scout and family=flypaper for medical troubles. I shouldn't joke. But everything's good, my sister turned out to be fine which was awesome. So it was good to be home though. Love hanging out with my parents. They are hysterical and not just in a "make the best of being home" kind of way. As in "LOL" (AIM JARGON=unending amusement) funny. Littlest sister in school for a summer class so she wasn't around, but I must admit, found it pretty weird how she really never called either my other sister or my dad.
But I digress.

Cut me a touch of slack.

In other news, yanks win. Home-school indian wins Scripps spelling bee. Sis went to phillies game other night, said Lieber hit a ridiculous double. I will never ever cease to get a kick out of the national league pitchers batting thing. Ever. And fortunately my sis is the same way, so she was giddy relating this story of lieber batting. How do NL fans not reach climax every single time they get to watch a pitcher bat? It's so awesome, I can't even find the words. it's like seeing your parents play beirut during parent's weekend at college or something. Awesome. Dwayne Wade continues to oscillate between THE BEST POSTSEASON NBA-ER EVER and A COMPLETE FLASH IN THE PAN. How come no one ever calls media out when they do this with Arod? It's no wonder the guy needed therapy. If I had the whole sports journalistic world darting back and forth between BEST BALLPLAYER IN HISTORY OF GAME and MOST OVERPAID PLAYER EVER IN THE HISTORY OF LIFE, I'd probably develop some kind of psychological disorder, too.

Also, my sister asks, "What does Jeter do in the morning? Seriously. Look in the mirror and says what? 'What can I do to be perfect today?' Who's the hottest girl I can get under my thumb? Hmm, we've been slacking on morale, maybe I should pitch a perfect game?"

I bet Jeter would have won the Scripps spelling bee. I'm not even kidding.

literally pains me

2005-05-26T13:43:00.000-07:00

to write this: in case you thought i was dead, I'm not. BUT while in DC for my sister's Georgetown graduation, I somehow got some weird eye affliction called uveitus, which isn't conJUNCtivitis--it's not contagious, but it makes me hyper sensitive to any source of light, for the next 6-8 weeks. So I've been avoiding bright computer screens. I feel like I should be cast as an extra for Buffy the Vampire Slayer or something, because even though it's pretty cloudy out right now, I can't walk outside because it is still waaayyy too bright out. And my pupils are completely dilated to the point where you can't even see my irises. So I look like rosemary's baby on ecstasy or something. Which of course, was exactly the look I was going for. So hence is why I've been avoiding my computer like a garlic clove or crucifix.

Blame the drugs...

2005-05-18T08:15:00.000-07:00

for my lack of writing anything remotely interesting in the last 29023 years. And by drugs, I mean the ones I'm researching for work. But if I didn't have a job that holed me up at a desk for 10 hours a day, I sure as hell would spend all day and night writing. That's like my dream: win the lottery and then do freelance drug copywriting and spend the majority of my waking hours writing about sports. (My friends always say, "You wouldnt travel?" But I hate travelling with a firey passion of 10,000 [phoenix] suns.)

So this is why I don't get why BS, who admittedly has definitely earned his cushy job, doesn't write every Goddamn day. I know his wife just had a kid and all, but please. It's not like his job involves a.) going into work, b.) any kind of challenge, or c.) a real stringent schedule. From now when I don't feel like making deadlines at my job, I'm going to pull out this brilliant "in the middle of writing my book so cut me some slack" pretense.

Anyways, you know that scene in Swingers that goes something like this:

MIKE
Haven't you noticed I didn't mention
Michelle once today?

ROB
I didn't want to say anything.

MIKE
Why?

ROB
I don't know. It's like not talking to
a pitcher in the midst of a no hitter.

MIKE
What? Like, you didn't want to jinx it?

ROB
Kinda.

MIKE
I don't talk about her that much.

ROB
Oh no?

MIKE
I didn't mention her once today.

ROB
Well, until now. Tend the pin.

MIKE
The only reason I mentioned her at all is
to say that I'm not going to talk about
her anymore. I thought you'd appreciate
that.

ROB
I do. Good for you, man.

MIKE
I've decided to get out there.

Well, I think you know what I'm not going to mention not mentioning.
I thought you'd appreciate that.

In terms of teams/sports I don't care enough about whether I'm jinxing or not, the dallas-suns game is tonight. I think the NBA finals and the MLB playoff race in the tail end of the summer are the only 2 times of the year I actually subscribe to that college-business-major/Diane Keaton-esque middle-aged corporate tiger catchphrase: There's not enough hours in the day!

This always killed me in college. But I guess I was an English and Theater major, so I had an unfair advantage of, well, never having anything that came close to resembling stress. But that whole "who has more work" competition thing was so aggravating, as if someone was ever going to capitulate and say, Wow! I thought my 300 page thesis on economic philosophies was daunting, but your 15 finals that fall all in one day definitely has the trump card!

Speaking of inane competitions, my Dad has been consistently cracking me up every single day at work. He discovered this contest the New Yorker just started, and he's become 100% obsessed with it. And I know if I was quasi-retired, enamored of the New Yorker, and creative like my Dad, I would be just as consumed with this. But my dad (like me) usually can't do things in moderation. I'm honestly surprised he hasn't developed a computer program that generates winning lines or something. Or has hunted down Salinger and enlisted him as his muse. Because my Dad calls me at work like, "So...did you think of any lines for this week's contest?" I think the one he came up with for this week is actually really funny. To the point where I "lol-ed" when he told me. And how many times can you say that about the New Yorker?

But so anyways, because just thinking of captions isn't enough (as they say), my Dad has decreed there's an intra-family contest between him, my mom, me, and my 2 younger sisters: Whoever wins one of these things first, everyone else in the family has to chip in and buy him/her dinner.

I see 2 main problems with this:
1.) It's 100% insane.
2.) More importantly, it assumes that it's basically a given that out of the millions and millions of dryly clever Americans who enter this every week, one of us will eventually win. Obviously.

I talked to my sister about this, and she was like, "Does he realize that they probably don't even read all the entries? That they probably pick a random sampling and pull a winner from that?" Good point.

But I'm being dead serious when I say I'd rather my dad win one of these things than pretty much anything else right now, including but not limited to: getting a promotion, getting a good night's sleep, and a bunch of sports-related desires, too. I guess this is how he felt when he and my sisters used to play softball, and my dad came to every game and he just loved when we got into clutch situations.

Or more aptly, when I graduated college and the morning of graduation I realized I didn't have any shoes to wear (not to mention my sundress was like transparent under the sun, but the gown took care of that--awesome foresight), and I had to borrow this teeny wedge sandal things that were basically narrow enough to fit in the back pocket of my jeans. So that was fun, walking up to get my diploma and blankly shaking the dean's hand, etc, and forgetting everything about that big life moment, because all I remember was concentrating on not falling. And then afterwards my mom says to me, "Congratulations! You know, the whole time I kept thinking..." (here I expect something along the lines of "how much youve matured, how proud we are, how profound this day is, etc") "...that I don't care if I die tomorrow as long as you don't fall wearing those shoes."

I love my parents, but I think they've engendered a propensity towards very skewed priorities in me.

Back to watching market research. It's kinda like watching doctors go on Blind Date. Like all this teeth pulling and awkward conversation. I keep expecting these little cartoony things to pop up on the bottom of the video streaming like, "Why doctors are lucky their profession is attractive enough to lasso women, in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1..." (cut to Doctor mumbling some indiscernible one word answer about something.)

Ah well. I wish I was a tiger.

(A common lament.) TM Calvin and Hobbes

Why ESPN should die of gonorrhea and rot in hell

2005-05-16T00:31:00.000-07:00

Would you like a cookie, son?

And they say that Yankee fans...

are fair weather?

Yes, they're both different writers. Yes, Yankee fans are finally feeling some relief after pulling our hair out for a few weeks. But as far as I know, Yankee fans never ever said, "Well that's it, the season's done for us." And then when we started getting a couple of W's under our belts, change our tune to, Let me back on the bandwagon!!

No one ever left. It drives me crazy that ESPN is billed as the sports authority, when really they are the equivalent of someone at a dog tricks show calling out specific commands to the dog as the dog is already doing it: ("Go chase that fly! umm..Walk towards the man holding the bowl of bacon!)--Yeah i know, my analogies are getting weirder and weirder. that's how I roll.

But seriously, ESPN will be all, "Hmm I have a HUNCH that Tejada is going to turn the Orioles around" but only when the Orioles are in the midst of a winning streak. They change their tune to coincide with the current trends, and then act as if they are clairvoyant when really they are just the worst kind of manipulative bandwagoners.

The Mavs are going to win the whole series. Now that I said that, of course, they will lose. But seriously, I like the Mavs. Despite the fact Stoudemire is just ridiculous and the suns have that whole MVP thing going on. (And by the way, he completely deserved MVP over Shaq. Shaq may be the most powerful force on the court, but Nash did more for his team than Shaq did. Meaning "most valuable" to me translates to things like assists.) If anything, on Miami Dwayne Wade was more valuable to Shaq than Shaq was for Miami.)

I'm just saying is all.

Also, this past weekend I went to Shea. Nice stadium, beautiful day. Less volatile than the stadium of the Yankee persuasion. No way jumped me for wearing a Yankee hat, and I didnt get vertigo sitting in the upper tiers, but I'll still take my Bronx home over it.

Saw "The Bachelor" aka charlie O'connell at a bar on thursday night. Had no idea who this guy was. Girls kept saying, Look it's the Bachelor! And i was like, "Who would have a bachelor party here?"

"No, no.It's THE bachelor."

So I thought that meant it was just like a really hot bachelor. But apaprently it's the guy from the TV show.

I slept til 5pm today. Last night was lunacy for a million reasons. I think a car may have exploded on my block or something because I heard the loudest noise I've ever heard in my life ever. Oh and this was about 10 minutes after I witness a car accident about 3 blocks away. Never actually SEEN a car accident occur in real time. Very scary. It was probably nature's way of telling me I should go to bed instead of get after it til 6am. Now I have to deal with that gross Sunday night feeling of having the weekend flash back in bits and pieces. Most of which involves me arguing with strangers about sports. The first sign I'm hammered=getting inexplicably fired up about sports issues I would normally not even care about. Apparently Craig Counsell was a hot topic of debate for me this weekend. There's something wrong with me.

It's also about 2302039423 degrees in my fine top story apt. Which is making this distilled Sunday feeling ever more lethargic. BUT on the plus side, I'm getting kind of fired up about taking a cold shower.

I'm so adept at trotting out the whole optimism thing. No joke.

been slacking ((teaser))

2005-05-11T13:51:00.000-07:00

..on sports articles as of late, been trying to focus on the Yankees but am now inexplicably distracted by the suns-dallas series. But I have a feeling that a lengthy diatribe about Dirk Nowitzski, his role in Punkd, and some unfounded claims about how the two are linked will soon take up my early morning hours.

About how I feel today

2005-05-11T12:09:00.000-07:00

This is the type of thing that I shouldn't be watching at work. For a lot of reasons.

But there is, of course,good news. This journalist is pretty fast and loose with the phrase "good news."

NOT WORRIED. Just...tired- like a disillusioned youth sans emo.

2005-05-07T04:52:00.000-07:00

The Yankees are a mess.

This news, of course, is about as breaking as Britney's bun in the oven. But what IS stop-the-presses noteworthy is that the fans- who have thusfar been desperately clinging to a battle cry of "The season's young!"- are beginning to slowly and listlessly accept this immobilizing truth. That our team, our revered immortal pinstripes, the apple of the eye of the Big Apple, the essence of my being and the blood running through my veins...is a mess.

And when I say "mess," I mean I've see fraternity basements on a Sunday morning look better than this.

The Yankees, their cesspool of unanswered paychecks, and their sputtering engine are, quite simply, breaking my heart. And before I launch into the Anatomy of the Nosedive Worse Than That of Goose, the top signs the Yanks have propelled me into desolation...

--I watched America's Next Top Model on Wednesday. While a game was going on. Moreover, one girl's 12-pound weight gain was more riveting than said game.

--The maintenance men in my office building heckle me every morning I come in wearing my Yankee jacket. (What's worse is the fact they jumped down my throat when I didn't wear it one day, so now whether it's 80 degrees out or snowing, I have to wear that damn windbreaker to prove my team loyalty. To the maintenance men.)

--After winning a 15-2 softball game, a friend whose knowledge of baseball is limited to the fact it involves a bat, said, "Well, at least you have one team in your life that can score."

--I used to get mauled when I went out to bars with my hat on. ("Yankees suck! You suck! Buy their team! A-rod's gay! Stupid Jeter!" etc etc ad naseum infinitum.) Now I get pity drinks.

--Hideki is sporting the lowest batting average on me and my sister's fantasy teams. My sister's boyfriend is begging her to trade him for Shea Hillenbrand. They fight about this.

--Are the Red Sox still a Major League team? I haven't heard one word about them in weeks. I guess when Tampa Bay is banging out double-digit runs against us, we have bigger problems to tender.

If I wanted this kind of aggravation, I'd have thrown my energies into the Knicks.

Now here's how it is. I feel the same way I did in high school when I had to watch this Spanish soap opera "Destinos" for class. I would sit through class technically watching this bizarre drama, but my eyes would glaze over. I had no idea what was going on. Then I figured if I just dialed in and concentrated on it, I could understand enough of the dialogue to make heads or tails of the plot. But no. Even when I mustered up all the Spanish fluency I had in me, the show still was more indecipherable than "Vanilla Sky."

The Yankees are playing in a different language. And something is clearly getting lost in the translation because even when Steinbrenner authoritatively identifies the "real problem with the club," the team is still playing like they are experiencing an existential crisis, are stoned, or think they're all tenured college professors, just going through the motions of showing up to class.

Most Yankee fans are apopletic. Spitting nails. I wish I could endorse this kind of fervent emotion. But since I have never and will never be able to bring myself to this violent aversion, I'm just quietly discouraged. Like how the father in "The Wonder Years" would yell and scream when he got upset with little Kevin Arnold, but the real blow was when the normally reserved mother would deadpan, "You've just really disappointed us."

And like those doting parents, I only say all this because I care. I don't feel as though I'm betraying my team, but since they so severely govern my life, I feel like a part of me is disintegrating away with them. (Mom's sidebar: "God. You need a boyfriend. Or at least a hobby.")

As much as it pains me, I'm acting like someone who just found out she has a rare and incurable disease: reading everything I can get my hands on for answers, even it means uncovering a horrifying truth. And despite this somewhat manic research, I can't find a single sports writer who can explain this Bronx Bombing with any degree of lucidity.

The pitching? How much can you really say about Randy, Pavano, and Mussina? They're not dominating, but despite bad games, it's a safe bet that they'll ultimately slip back into place. (Mussina was shaky at the beginning of last year, too, but his ERA in September and October was just anemic.)

The hitting? What is there to say about a line-up boasting Sheffield, A-Rod, Jeter, Matsui, and Tino? We're trotting out a roster littered with future Hall-of-Famers, but we're either scoring 329 runs off David Wells or letting BARRY ZITO keep us to 3. Mind-boggling. I'd have an easier time making sense of organic chemistry,

Every team's got their weak links. But we're the only team in dead last.

And I'm still trying to get my head around why Bernie's arm has won the honor of being Scapegoat-of-the-Week. Last I checked, we weren't losing any games because the ball is dribbling to home plate.

In fact, last I checked, we were losing games because Posada was throwing to an unmanned 2nd base. Or our farm pitchers were tossing out the batter instead of the lead runner. Or our infielders were bobbling routine double-plays. Dropped pop-ups. Erratic base-running. Icy slumps. Poorly aimed throws.

We don't need to re-rack our line-up. We need a Little League Baseball Clinic.

And that right there is the reason that I'm left feeling dejected and defeated after every game. While I felt like I got left at the altar after game 7 of last year's ALCS, this is exponentially worse. At the risk of sounding like a 3rd-round losing college basketball coach, the Sox just out-played us. I could get past the famed collapse/choke/Yankee-hater Utopia because it was just a tough loss at an inopportune time. To put it lightly.

I'm not writing them out of the playoffs like certain ESPN writers, because despite the blitz of "last start this bad..." statistics, last year demonstrated that stats are Page-A-Day Calendar fodder and not steel prophecies.

But this here is sheer pain. Cringing. Sometimes tears. To borrow another page from the Bible of Go-to Sports Cliches, they don't look like a team. They look like the walking embodiments of everything Yankee-Haters purport.

And it's killing me one loss at a time.

But in these trying times, it is important to put a positive spin on everything. So maybe it's better to die this way, rather than via the mass homicide that will ensue should the Boss's pony not win the Kentucky Derby.

I'm putting 12-1 odds on him blaming the bullpen.

Like my feelings on CT from the Real World

2005-05-04T16:36:00.000-07:00

I know I should find him incredibly offensive, (especially since he likes New York City about as much as a kick in the face with golf shoes), but instead I have to admit, I think he's hysterical.

Honestly, "I'm still a millionaire and you're a piece of shit" has just sprinted to the top of my List of Favorite Ridiculous B-List Celebrity/Athlete Lines. Right beneath the following dialogue from The Real World, Paris:

Ace: I think i need some alone time
CT: With who?
Ace: With myself, man.

The Yankees have all but brought up Scarlett Johanson to play right field. Can't they find a way to move this guy into the roster? I swear this would produce dynamite results.

Yankees=Job

2005-05-04T11:08:00.000-07:00

Not Job like a career. Job like that guy from the Bible.

I haave roughly 2398472394 things to say about the way the media is covering the Yankees lately. But I'm apopletic right now, so I'm going to calm down first, put in a few calls to some Italian relatives, off ESPN, and then we can talk.

I am so Goddamn sick of these "last start this bad" statistics...

That's what I hate most about yankee-haters. They are hypocrites. They will contort their logic so that it coincides with their asinine loathing. If the Yankees were on a 20 game streak right now, everyone would be saying that "April and May means nothing." But instead, because they're losing, it's indicative of the outcome of a 7 month season.

How do people like this write for ESPN? Can you honestly put faith in someone who's actually written off a team 25 games into the season?

I'm spitting nails write now. Seriously. As soon as I gather my thoughts and take a brisk walk around midtown, I will properly articulate myself.

Til then...

Scientology

2005-05-02T09:38:00.000-07:00

I'm so confused. All these celebrities, you'd think ONE of them would be like, "Scientology my ass." Sounds like a job for Curt Schilling.

If for no other reason than the fact that EVERYONE is jumping on the Band Wagon. I want to see a celebrity roll up with something like, "Yeah I've gotten really into this new religion called Catholicism. It's awesome. Strict, old fashioned teachings. Morals. Totally novel, you know?" That would be better than Kabbalah mumbo jumbo. Or even better, if someone trotted out a completely invented religion (which isn't a far cry from what Scientology is): "Um yeah I practice Cubism. What? No, not the art form. The religion. The practice of finding all of life's answers in office supplies in a your work cubicle. Every object represents a different element of the soul. Scotch Tape is man's penchant for human relationships. A pencil signifies our fear of committment, as well as our fear of making mistakes, while a Sharpie represents permanence. And well a corkboard? That, quite obviously, is a reflection of whats inside us."

I can 100% see someone like Billy Crystal coming out with this, and then all the other celebrities--not sure whether or not he's kidding, but too stupid to know otherwise--enthusiastically run with Cubism. Like Lindsey Lohan billing Cubism as "the religion of the youth generation."

God, if I were a celebrity, I'd have so much fun with it. You'd think for all their complaining about the papparazzi and the travelling and strain on their love lives, that they'd find something entertaining to do with their status, other than booze it up at the China Club.

But that's me.

Ichiro saga continues...

2005-05-02T00:02:00.000-07:00

So when I joined my fantasy league, I tried to guise my female identity and pretend to be a guy. Like during the online draft, I used words like "dude" and ended sentences with ", man" and didn't write in full thoughts. Because I figured if they knew I was a chick they'd propse trades like "Benitez for Johnson" or something. I dont know. But I think the gig is up because this one guy in my league has proposed bizarro trades for Ichiro for like the last 3 days. The latest is Jim Edmonds for Ichiro. Which isn't wholly terrible. Better than the guy who proposed Austin Kearns, Uquina, and Jose Mesa for Radke and Huff, I guess. But still. So I emailed him back and said the only guy I'd be willing to take for Ichiro is Jeter.

I just picked Brown off waiver wires. Just wait. You guys will see.

My goal is to get as many Yankees on my team as possible so my whole problem with Fantasy Baseball can be mollified. My problem being best exemplified by the Anaheim/Yankees game that pushed me up to 4th place from 2nd the last, since I have Scot Shields and K-Rod on my team. In other words, I hate being in the position where I'm not 100% into backing my boys. Even a fraction of me is like, well at least I got some fantasy points out of this, I still feel guilty. It's kind of like that Seinfeld episode when George is like, "I bet she breaks up with me," and Seinfeld says, "That's a bad bet. If you win, it means she broke up with you, if you lose, well you lost the bet." Or something to that effect anyway.

This upcoming week at work is going to be worse than drinking orange juice after brushing your teeth.

In other news, I watched Big Daddy this weekend, and there's this part in it that makes me crack up without fail, just by thinking about it, a la the scene in Dumb and Dumber that gave us this champion: "His head fell off? Yeah he was pretty old."

In Big Daddy: when Adam Sandler is trying to see if his kid is hanging with "the bad crowd." He goes to the playground and he's talking to these 6yr old kids:

Adam Sandler: Man this Yoohoo is good, you know what else is good, smoking dope. I ain't gonna rat you out. You know, puffing the cheeba, go by the see saw smoke a j. You know what I'm talking about?

Kid: I have a belly button.

AS: You have a belly button, well we all have belly buttons. You know what? We all love Yoohoo, especially Yoohoo with a little rum. What's rum? You don't know what rum is?

Kid: Rumplestilskin?

AS: Rumplestilskin. Rumplestilskin's a good man. So are you guys. Hey, stay clean, stay focused, stay strong. Frankenstein, have fun with your friends.

******

Rumplestiltskin. Awesome.

Good night, bedtime for Bonzo, man.

a few pre-sleep thoughts

2005-05-01T03:07:00.000-07:00

1.) the yankees win.
2.) the aflac trivia question: "Who was the last Yankee to win his debut at Yankee Stadium?" I guessed wrong with Brad Halsey. It's Duque. They got me on that one. Good for Alfac.
3.) I go out tonight to some random bar in the west village. The assclowns from the God-awful party I went to last weekend were all there. So weird and unfortunate. Manhattan is supposed to be too big for this crap.
4.) In Silence of the Lambs: the senator's daughter at the end of the movie, when she's free and walking out of Buffalo Bill's house... she's carrying the dog "Precious." If I was holed up in a well in tortuous anticipation of my sadisitic death, I would probably not bring home a momento of that experience. Probably would stray from taking the psycho's dog home with me. But that's me. This part always confuses me. I don't care if it was Snowflake the Dolphin. Any remnant of my time at the hand of a serial killer would be most likely be discarded swiftly.
5.) The yankees win. But if we're being honest, my favorite part of watching that game was the fact the pitching matchup was WANG vs. BUSH. There are way too many jokes to come from this, and all of them would probably too harshly implicate me, testifying to the fact that indeed I am a 5 yr old. I'll write the NY post in my will if the backpage headline tomorrow is WANG STICKS IT TO BUSH.
And I won't look back. That's how I roll.

Randy, Haladay, Chien

2005-04-30T11:04:00.000-07:00

That's it, I'm starting to attend games. The one last night must have been unbelievable to witness. Even though the yanks lost, I think overall the game points to good things from Randy. One bad pitch. I know we signed him to get W's, but if you look at his pitches, they are crisp. His slider was looking unbelievable, and his location was pretty spot-on. It's a tough loss, but you can't look at the game as an indication of bad things. You have to treated everything in life as an isolated incident. It's when you start saying, "You're ALWAYS late," or "We just can't win!" that you run into trouble. The bats slept last night because it was a pitcher's duel. It happens.

I think Jeter is about to come into a stellar streak. A-rod, of course, has rode out his moment in the sun to his critics, who are now whining he doesn't get hits in clutch situations. Guy can't win. I'm REALLY interested to see how Chien Ming Wang pitches today. And for the record, all you Brown infidels, you can't ignore the fact that he pitched beautifully this past week. I think all these little kinks should have been worked out during spring training, but I'm very encouraged by the fact our pitchers are polishing their arsenals.

I think Chien is going to pitch a decent game today. I don't know why. I have a feel, though, that he's going to have Brad Halsey syndrome. Excellent opener in Yankee Stadium. Potential to get rattled in front of disapproving opposing fans. But what the hell do I know. I'm hoping for sick, unexpected brilliance from Chien. That would be hot like summer.

In other news, some chick from washington who I can only assume is the intern I so severely lambasted, is sending me hate mail about how my eyes are "different shapes and sizes." Kinda hurt my feelings, because while I knew they were different SIZES, my friends never pointed out they were different SHAPES. Bitches. That's the type of thing I want them to tell me about.

But the best part is that she's writing this mail under the pretense of being a dude. As if a dude would ever say, "Your eyes are unnerving." If a guy wanted to insult me, he'd attack my sports knowledge. That's just how it is. Since I've noticed the intern has made the rounds of googling herself, including a counterattack email to another blog, I feel a little ripped off I didnt get to relish direct email interaction.

My NY Post Immortal Medallion Collection display board is looking pretty cool on my mantle, next to my Rivera rookie card that I just bought. But on the other hand, I can't get past the fact that every time I look at that display board, I think, "I cannot believe I spent $3.50 every morning on buying one of those things." I swear to God, when I woke up this morning, I thought, "I'm so happy it's the weekend because that's 2 days of not having to pick up the medallions." Not that there's anything wrong with them. But every time I get one right before I get on the subway, I'm a little sad to part with those few dollars. And the worst part is, I have no qualms about dropping $80 on a night of drinking. At least I'll get to have tangible evidence of my idiotic spending habits with this Medallion thing. With the drinking, I can only hope I never see tangible evidence of it.

I'm going to an upper west side pub crawl in about 2 hours. The secret to avoiding "tangible evidence" is something I learned on my 21st birthday, when I managed to have 24 shots/drinks without ever throwing up. At all. (To be fair, I drank a shot or mixed drink every hour starting at midnight the second I turned 21 and ending at midnight. Very pragmatic. But still no small feat for a chick who weighs a buck and change.) The secret: Peanut butter sandwich. Power Bar. Right before you drink.

I'm serious. I don't have an iron stomach, I just have a stomach coated in Peanut Butter and protein.

Speaking of, time to prepare pre-daytime-drinking meal.

I think the real question...

2005-04-29T11:03:00.000-07:00

at hand is: What would the Pope have to say about this?

Would he have taken him out? Or give him a second chance?

The Deadliest Sin: Gambling or Steroids?

2005-04-28T20:29:00.000-07:00

"In gambling, the many must lose so that the few may win." -George Bernard Shaw

I once asked a tech support guy in the Apple Store what the over/under line was on how long it would take to fix my ibook charger, and if I could arrange a payment plan based on the money line. There's more money on my Foxwoods Casino card than there is in my checking account. And I may or may not have put point spreads on Connect Four games. (It can be done.)

So understand my stance on gambling generally leans towards the liberal side--because while my unorthodox blackjack methods may make me Public Enemy #1 at the table, I know no one's betting on ME. I can afford to live like an idiot, and I don't mean financially speaking. My teasers and parlays affect no one but a rich bookie and my bank statement. But while I can leisurely vacation in The Land of Gratuitous Risks and Gambles- athletes, coaches, and managers should be denied a visa here.

Admittedly, when I first heard of the whole Lenny Dykstra steroid/gambling drama, my first thought was, "They have a slow week pegging the pros so they have to resort to investigating happily retired players?" Does it really matter if he used steroids or not more than a decade ago? That's like pitching a fit at your high school reunion about how the homecoming queen ballots were fixed.

From the looks of things, it seems Lenny is going to get off relatively unscathed. Although should the investigation reveal he has in fact gambled on his team, he will be banned from the game. "Nails" may be nailed, a la Charlie Hustle style.

And for once, I'm taking sides with The Establishment.

It's been said that Dykstra is very reminiscent of Pete Rose, in ways that extend beyond casino controversies. Both players possessed a fierce drive and determination that was electric if you were lucky enough to witness it--this charismatic immersion into the game that made it seem like they just wanted to engulf the very dirt they were playing on. I know all about Pete's unparalleled hitting achievements. I know that Lenny Dykstra was the first man in major league history to lead his league in at-bats, hits, runs, and walks.

But that doesn't change the fact that I think gambling in sports is more deadly a sin than taking performance enhancing supplements.

There. I said it. Let the dropkicking ensue.

The way I see it, using steroids is like taking a test on "The Canterbury Tales" after having read only the Cliffs Notes. If you suffered through all the labor of actually reading that minion of Satan, you could feasibly come close to the same result. But the Cliffs Notes give you an intense, concentrated version of the book--it's the "juice" of literature. You're essentially amplifying and catalyzing your understanding and learning curve.

But gambling? That's like breaking into the English Department to find out what the exam questions are a week early. The playing field can't be close to leveled because you're operating on knowledge that no one else can possibly be privy to. And subsequently, it changes how you yourself prepare for the test.

I know, I know. The whole Pete Rose Debate is more hackneyed than Jeter's diving catch into the stands. Blame Dykstra for trotting out this one-two punch of steroids AND gambling. The best of both evils. And if we're talking about immorality in baseball, I'd be remiss in not calling out Pete Rose, who stole the English exam, got expelled, and then campaigned to be valedictorian.

When Pete Rose was placing bets on his own team, he had the luxury to rearrange the line-up, to dictate the stolen bases, the bunts, the pitching rotation. He was changing the face of the game to his own advantage, while the MLB and the oblivious fan continued paying his debts.

The bottom line: the fans and the MLB are coughing up the paychecks. Coaches and athletes are therefore as much governed by the game as a corporate executive is by his clients. When Dykstra was suspended for his heavy involvement in high-stakes poker, he affected the framework and dynamic of the rest of the '91 Phillies club. If I spent all night playing beer pong and then rolled up to a client meeting hungover and reaking of stale alcohol, I'd get an unpleasant talk with HR behind closed doors. Because while I can do what I want on my own time, as soon as it spills into what I get paid for, the hand that feeds me is going to pull rank.

Dykstra may want to someday eat out of the MLB's hand again. Maybe eventually he'll have a hankering to coach for the Phillies, but he should absolutely be denied this position in the same ardent fashion Pete Rose couldn't get by the bouncer at the Hall of Fame.

It's been alleged that Dykstra tipped off a bookie on certain 1993 Philly games, but this is ultimately irrelevant. For the record, it's dubious he could have accurately called each of the 11 games he supposedly predicted. Close to $100,000 in gambling debt is monument enough to skewed priorities. Dykstra may have been a severely sharp force on the field, but his gambling problems pale this to a certain degree. I'm not comfortable hanging my hat on someone who doesn't unequivocally live and breathe baseball.

Sure, there have been other ballplayers who have subscribed to questionable extracurricular activities. The Babe, the 1960's Yankees, Ty Cobb, the '86 Mets. None of them were exactly guys I'd take home to my meet my parents, but as far as I know, their habits never compromised the integrity of rivalry and competition. They weren't dipping their pen in the company ink. They didn't elevate themselves to a completely different stratosphere by adding another level of consequence to the game. (And by "elevate themselves," I'm speaking metaphorically. The '86 Mets don't count.)

I am, of course, operating on a very abridged, hypothetical, one-dimensioned perception of the gambling culture in baseball. There are undoubtedly countless cases I'm either not referencing, or that we're not even aware of. Be that as it may, it's like when Martha Stewart was indicted. Millions of CEOs do exactly what she did. But she got caught. And neither the Sensei of Flower Arrangements nor the number-crunching corporate weasels are any less guilty. And being Charlie Dust Ruffle couldn't and shouldn't exempt her from breaking the rules.

There will always be some X-factor that taints a player's stats, whether it's possible steroid use, diluted pitching in an expansion team year, or stadium perimeters. And there will always be an X-factor clouding a player's good name, whether it's a penchant for prostitutes, a surly demeanor, or a gambling problem. But what there will never be is a clearly defined line denoting what the sport can tolerate.

Is gambling in it of itself unforgivable? I hope not, since if that were the case, I'd be earmarked for early acceptance to the University of Hell's Burning Fires. But then again, I'm not the commissioner of any fantasy Connect Four leagues.

Should Pete Rose be in the Hall of Fame? Negative. Should Lenny come back to coach? No. Because if nothing else, gambling proved that it was more than a habit for him: it was a detriment to his game. Will baseball ever be the idealized pastime it once was? I wouldn't bet on it. Maybe it never even was.

Lenny Dykstra might have run the gamut of sports taboos, but the greater crime the game must fend off is its spotty gambling culture. Baseball's greats aren't all Ned Flanders, but the price of admission to the Hall of Fame shouldn't be paid with house money.

This guy right here...

2005-04-28T10:02:00.000-07:00

...is completely nuts

But since I have a completely skewed sense of humor, I think the funniest part of this story is the reasoning Frank Bolton gave for taking him under his wing. It's nice to know someone out there is using good old fashioned morals to make signing decisions.

There's just so much you could do with this information. For starters, imagine what the Pope would indeed do if faced with the decision on whether or not to sign Rocker. Can you imagine the new Pope being all, 'I'm not a substitute teacher, you can't pull a fast one over me. This serious business." And then softening a little and being like, 'Welllll...I guess God DOES have a weakness for manic closers from the South."

And THEN, reminiscient of the scene from Dumb and Dumber when Harry and Lloyd are stopping for hitchhikers...the Pope gleefully chirps, "PICK him UP!!!"

Actually when you think about it, the Pope probably WOULDN'T sign Rocker, because I'm pretty sure a few of Rocker's rants might conflict with the Catholic teachings. I can't imagine the Pope being wild about bringing on board to his team a guy who's spit out more racial and derogatory comments than the Confederate Army.

See, this is how bizarre that statement was. The fact that I'm actually considering the Pope's scouting preferences at 9:30am is testament enough to the fact that nothing about it makes sense.

In other news, we're blessed with another witticism of unsubstantiated arrogance from our favorite gimp pitcher.

Lou Piniella just wrote himself into my will with his response. On the subway ride over to work today, (which took about 90 minutes because of a "rare situation in Brooklyn") I was thinking about how I could make use of that comeback. Like if someone said to me, "Noooo, the O.C. is a repeat tonight, not a fresh new episode!" I could volley back, "Listen, what I forgot about the O.C., you'll never know."

I'm telling my dad about this one. He's always on the lookout for new shots he can use in online poker rooms. I'm being completely serious. I was giving him a few but they were more "my generation," I guess. Like that line from the Usher song: "Take that and rewind it back." He was looking for something a little more poetic and less sharp, I think. So finally I gave him maybe the cheesiest one of all. I can't even remember where I heard it, maybe a Babysitter's Club book from pre-teen years of something: "I'd continue this battle of wits, but I can see you're unarmed."

And Dad, being my Dad, loved it. I wonder if he used it. If he had, I'd had loved to be a [virtual] fly on that [cyberspace] wall.

Anyways, I've been bad about posting lately because I've been working til all hours. Actually, I think from now on, I'm using this "rare situation in Brooklyn" line as my go-to excuse for delays and being late:

"Sooo... pick you up at 8?"
"Umm...better make it 9. There's a rare situation in Brooklyn."

At least I THINK they said "rare." After about the 50th time they announced it, I may have started contorting the words into something that would entertain me more while sitting on a crowded subway amidst ipod-adorned corporate inpatients.

I consider myself lucky to be so easily amused. I'm working on a sports piece, so hopefully it will be done by the end of the day.

Softball game tonight! As my dad says, "KATN." Which means "kick ass and take names." Which he swears on everything is a phrase he invented. That and "Taking Care of Business." I'm not even kidding. I love that man. Who's better than him?

Don Larsen's Cousin & A-rod's Grand Slam

2005-04-26T21:20:00.000-07:00

Don Larsen had a cousin, Phillip Hoose, and while everyone knows about Larsen's perfect WS game, the dismal season he was having prior to this is usually forgotten. But Phillip Hoose remembered his cousin's slump well, because it caused him a great deal of ridicule and problems at school. I guess little Phillip was sort of a dork at school, and the fact that he was obsessed with the Yankees didn't bode well for him. So when Larsen pitched his famous game, it helped out his cuz BIG TIME in terms of status at school. Everyone wanted to be friends with him, he was popular, self-confident, the works. And of course, what meant more to Hoose than all these celebrity perks, was the fact that he was so immensely proud that his cousin did something amazing.

Now scale that story down about 300 times, and that's how I feel about A-rod right now. I'm partly thrilled that my staunch defense of him hasn't been for naught, and partly thrilled that he's coming out in full force. Yeah, he's gotten htis and RBIs here and there so far, but this game is impossible to ignore. And no, it's not a big game, it wasn't a clutch situation, but A-rod's earning his paycheck. And along with that paycheck, earning the right to position himself among the game's best.

It's just one game. But every Yankee fan knows that every player needs that ONE GAME where a player earns his stripes. A-rod's got his. If there was ever any doubt that he belongs on that long-balling club, it's already evaporated into april air.

And it's only the 6th inning.

feast or famine

2005-04-25T22:50:00.000-07:00

Again. I know, I just got back from spring training like a month ago, and I'm burnt out already. I think it's baseball season. Or maybe just my job. I didn't get home til just now, which means the rest of the week is going to follow suit. No getting out early any point this week, so I think it's going to be Week 2 of At Least 27 Innings I Won't Watch. Crap.

It doesn't help that the NBA finals are on this week. So basically, I roll back home from work, look at my list of things to do, look at my couch, and then decide I'll "wake up really early tomorrow to write a sports article." Not only that, but by the time I get back from work, I'm so fuzzy from staring at a computer all day and thinking about things like "randomized, double-blind, placebo-controlled" studies, that I can't even fully absorb anything on TV. Like certain things will pop out, whatever the announcers I guess deem important.

My mom always says that sports announcers do to the game what movie scores do to films. "It's just this ultimately meaningless background noise that would mean nothing if it stood by itself. But instead it tells us how we're supposed to feel about everything." I never thought about sports commentators dictating my emotional sports involvement, nor I suppose did I ever want to actually think this could be true. But she's right.

I think I flipped on the channel and the announcer was all fired up about Nowitski. A safe bet for something to be fired up about I guess. I seriously cannot believe it's only Monday. I swear on my cat, if it I get out of work by 7:00 tomorrow, I'm jumping on the 4 train and heading straight to the stadium.

Someone in my fantasy league proposed this trade:
Giambi, Jermaine Dye, and D. Roberts, for Ichiro.

And i"m going to say no. For a few reasons, but to be honest, the number 1 reason is because I dont have the mental capacity to rearrange my roster to accomodate this. Simple as that. I mean, if he tried to trade me lew ford for ichiro I probably would have said yes, just so I wouldnt have to deal with it, and because it would be easy.

You know that part in Hannibal at the end when Hannibal cuts open that guy's skull and starts cutting pieces of brain out and throws them on a grill while Agent Starling looks on? That's how I feel right now. Like some kind of mixture of all 3 characters in that scene.

Everyone I know will be happy to learn that I've found a new inane game to become obsessively competitive about, quasi-replacing beirut:

That arcade basketball game.

There's a bar around the corner from me that has that, a pool table, a dart board, and board games behind the counter. I called my friend all excitedly, like, "I FOUND MY NEW FAVORITE BAR IN THE UPPER EAST SIDE."

And she's like ooh, whats it like?

And I tell her, and there's this pause. Then:

Were you really at a bar? Or did you go to Kids Wide World of Sports or something?

****

So now i have something new to catalyze my daytime drinking. Who has it better than me.

Proof it's THEM not US

2005-04-25T10:27:00.000-07:00

Nothing but class here...what more could you expect for a defending champion?

My personal favorite pull quotes:

Blinding confidence and go-getter ambition from Aubrey Huff, after getting hit with the pitch that started it all:

"That's Yankees-Red Sox," Huff said. "We're the last team on their minds."

****

David Ortiz proving that if a career in baseball doesn't pan out, he could always do voice-overs for Sesame Street:

"That ball almost hit me in the head," Ortiz said. "That's dangerous. I think they need to stop the hitting thing."

****

Trot Nixon acting on the clause in his contract which mandates at least one "idiot" reference in press conferences, after any instance where the team clearly fucks up:

Nixon said someone poked him in the eye, which made him "furious." He wouldn't identify which player it was. "If I wanted to be an idiot, it could have been worse," Nixon said.

****

I know everyone hates how the Yankees never fight back against the Sox. And everyone is always like, "Those Yankee-Sox brawls! Oh, those 2!" As if we are talking about Betty and Veronica or something. But the Red Sox just suck. That's all there is to it. Their fans, their team. They're not "idiots" anymore. They're defending champions. They need to stop acting like Jack Nicholson at a Lakers game, gratuitously getting fired up just for the sake of it.

They may be world series champs, but to me, they're a joke.

The 2 aren't mutually exclusive.

An email with the subject "I think I am about to make your day" & etc.

2005-04-24T14:19:00.000-07:00

My coworker sent me this absolute beauty and it is in the top 5 best presents I've ever received.

And I would be remiss in not sharing this with the rest of the world.

In other news, I went to an "80's Prom" theme party at some SoHo loft last night, teeming with investment bankers. I wanted to leave as soon as I got there, but if we're looking at the bright side of things, it was a crystallized reaffirmation of why I never hang out with "i-bankers." Every guy there was worse than the next. Beyond the fact they all thought my Yankee hat was part of an 80's theme outfit, they all do that unduly annoying guy manuveur of putting their hands on your back when they're talking to you. I was about 5 seconds from dropkicking every single asswipe who did this.

Spectacular catch by Bernie.

You know how in Roungers Teddy KGB eats Oreos as his tell? That's how I am with Twizzler Pull and Peels. Whenever there's like a proverbial light bulb going off on top of my head, it's a safe bet I'll have one of those stringly red ropes hanging from my mouth.

Sweet Jeter double. I wish I was at the game right now. But since I'm not hungover today, let's be thankful for the small blessings.

An addendum

2005-04-23T16:32:00.000-07:00

I'm dropping my whole rant on the Sports Guy Intern after this, I swear.

So I call my sister, and we're talking about the intern contest, and she was like, "I can't believe you kept reading up on that thing after the first round. Did you forget how a finalist wrote in her essay, 'Im a cunning linguist with 36C's'?" Good point. She also ran with this, "I threw up in my mouth after that."

So I tell her that although a chick didn't win (we were both pretty terrified of the idea of some girl being rewarded for her "i'm a dude in a chick's body" philosophy), that the chick runner-up gets to still write for Page 2.

My sister shoots back: "WHAT?! She's not the intern, but she's going to write for Page 2?!? That's like running for Secretary of State and losing, so Congress says, 'well we loved your campaign, so we'll make you president instead.' I hate girls. I hate everyone."

yeah me and my sister may or may not be the same person.

grumble grumble

2005-04-22T00:45:00.000-07:00

In old school Nintendo Zelda, there's this labyrinth thing that you have to get through, and when you walk into a room there's this creature who just says "grumble grumble," and the secret to getting past him is feeding him ENEMY BAIT. Awesome. Anyways, so ever since I first played that game when I was a kid, I started saying "grumble grumble." Just putting that out there.

And now the grumble grumble is referring to the fact it's friday night, 11:45pm, and I just got back from work like 2 hours ago. And now I'm too tired to go out. I did get a bonus this week though, which was hot like summer. So maybe I should just take my lumps here, and pass out, and stop grumble grumbling.

I'm half-watching Jerry McGuire. This movie makes me so uncomfortable. Like the type of uncomfortable that occurred when my sister at 16 years old rented Requiem for a Dream and watched it with my mom. My mom called me the next day and said she was so uneasy the whole time, so I asked her why she let her rent it:

"I thought it was a movie about boxing!"

Which basically is like answering "Why is there silly putty spread all across your apt?" with "I thought it was play-doh!" But maybe it makes sense a little, the idea of my mom wanting to watch a movie about boxing, because she's like surreptiously quite knowledgeable in sports. You wouldn't know it, but she rolls up randomly with hardcore sports trivia out of nowhere. Like the Silent Bob of sports. She is also inexplicably strong and has a bizarrely high alcohol tolerance even though she has about 1 bottle of wine a year. But the few times I've seen her drink, like when she'd be coerced into it by other parents during Parents Weekend at school, she threw back shots like they were Hi-C.

I still can't figure out why Jerry McGuire was such a good movie. I hate Rene Zelwegger, and just watching her makes me twitch. I just don't get why the plot is any good. Seriously, is "you had me at hello" that good a line? I've heard better. I think this movie is like a really paled sports version of As Good As It Gets. If that makes any sense. Actually, it REALLY reminds me of the last episode of Sex and the City. How Carrie ends up with Big in the end. How is this gratifying? They broke up and got back together every other season, and every time he said he was a changed man, he would dick her over. So how are we the audience to believe that after the final episode, Big didn't dick her over again? He definitely did. These are the questions I need answers to. Similarly, how is it gratifing that Jerry and Dorothy end up together? The best part of that whole movie was...I don't know. I was going to say the end zone dance in the final minutes but eh.

I am so damn tired. And I have so much to say about the conclusion of the Sports Guy's Intern Contest, but I think work has sufficiently drained me this week. I'll give it the old college try though.

Basically, every day Simmons gives me a new reason never to read Page 2 anymore. Now that only do I refuse to read his sports columns (intern contest doesn't count, back off, antagonists), but now he's allegedly hiring the first runner up in his Intern contest to write for ESPN. This chick, Theresa MacDonald, has earned a spot next to my old boss in the All-Star car wreck team. Not only does she look like Nikki from the Saved by the Bell episodes with Miss Bliss, but she tries so hard, that she makes Rudy Ruedicker look like a slacker.

I was so happy when I found out she didn't win, but that was only a fleeting moment of joy because now apparently, she somehow is getting to write a column for ESPN. But that's actually probably a good thing because I don't think ESPN.com has enough schticky Boston fan writers. And by "not enough," I mean that if there were anymore they would be legally permitted to develop their own form of currency.

I mean, tell me this isn't bitingly original work right here: (on an ESPN article entitled "86 Reasons to Hate the Red Sox") "Jealously rears its ugly head!"

How I supposed to ever cultivate a tolerance for RSN if there are people like Theresa MacDonald walking around? It's like how there are some judges who are especially hard on defendants apprehended for drug dealing or drunk driving, because the judge doesn't like the idea of his kids being on the same streets as these degenerates. I'm just not comfortable walking on the same coastline as this girl. This is the type of chick who I would probably destroy in college. Actually, this is exactly the type.

I was telling my buddy the other day that I've mellowed out in the last year or two, but there are certain things that will get me uncontrollably fired up, no matter what, no matter how old and mellow I get:
The Yanks
My family
Chicks

(And by yanks and family, I mean fired up in a very protective, defensive way. With chicks, it's more offensive.)

I wasn't like a "Mean Girl" who terrorized the losers. I was just unnervingly skeptical of girls who pigeonholed themselves as "just one of the guys! I can drink any dude under the table, I say 'fuck' a lot, I don't give a shit what people think about me, I just say what I mean, you know? I'm just crazy like that." Hate chicks like that. HATE. Because they are so transparent. There's always someone like this on the Real World. Some chick who is like, "I'm soooo not about committment." And then like clockwork [orange], she's sleeping with the frat boy from Texas in the first week and then crying ad naseum infinitum in her confessionals about how he flirts with other girls in clubs.

You don't find good looking girls doing this type of thing much. If they do, it is not to a sickening extent. Attractive girls don't need to perpetuate this whole "I'm like a dude in a chick's body!" mentality, because they don't need to.

Theresa MacDonald, of course, does not fall into said category of aesthetically appealing females. Boy, I'm being kind of harsh. What did she ever do to me? Nothing, I know. But that doesn't detract from the fact one day I will have kids who may have her as a busdriver or something. Plus, I can tell she is kind of bitchy. How, you ask? Same philosophy as above. My mom, sister, and I have talked about this. Pretty girls aren't nasty because they have no reason to be. They're not threatened by anyone. Ugly girls are bitter. The worst are girls who were once ugly and then became pretty, because they're trying to wreak revenge on the female race. So if you ever meet a hot chick on the street who starts sizing you up, rest assured she was once hanging out on the steps with Miss MacDonald during recess, gingerly nimbling on twinkies, compulsively straightening their glasses, and itching their poison ivy.

I just know these things. It's a gift.

Sangria and Wagon Vacancy

2005-04-21T09:56:00.000-07:00

My dad goes crazy when he's in a big pool, like one of those $500 just to enter with a grand prize of like $25G, and my Mom says something like, If you win, we're redoing the driveway. Because he says as soon as you start planning what you're going to do with the money, you've already lost the pool. Jinxing it. So I'm going to refrain from talking about the stellar mood I'm in.

I had a really good meal last night, fusilli with chicken, sundried tomatos, and brocoli. AND SANGRIA. It's very tough to top a night of sitting on an outdoor 2nd floor balcony of a restaurant, watching the people on the NYC streets walk beneath you, while you knock down a pitcher of sangria on a weekday night in April when the weather is still 80 degrees at 9pm.

I'm glad Pavano came through last night. Didnt watch any of the game AGAIN. That's 3 in a row. Huh. I used to be known as the chick who didn't miss an inning. Well, actually, Crazy Yankee Chick to be exact. (If you've ever in a bar on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, mention Crazy Yankee Chick. Maybe you'll get a knowing smile. Or kicked out. Depending on where you go.)

I was talking to my coworker who very arbitrarily has somewhat astute observations on the Yankees without even being a diehard fan. We were talking about A-rod, (what else), and I was still sticking to my guns that he's the best player in baseball, despite this early showing. And he said, yeah well he's A-rod. He's an unbelievable player and a force to be reckoned with, but I bet you anything there will be someone else this year who puts up close to the same numbers as him, and who's making $8 million a year instead of 25.

And I thought about it, and he's probaby right. A-rod consistently puts up big numbers, but every year, there's some breakout player who will come close. I mean, who the hell ever heard of Beltran before last year? Or Brian Roberts this year? That drives me crazy. The whole Beltran phenomenon. My sister and I used to get into such heated arguments about it, like fights that culminated in her storming out. She was a big Beltran supporter, and I just couldn't hang my hat on a player no one gave much attention to until last year, and who's "big numbers" consisted of a .258 season batting average.

Everyone always says Yankee fans are bandwagon fans, and you know what, the way I see it, yankee fans are yankee fans. I'm not saying I like fans who stop liking a team when they're losing, but if a fan decides to "jump on the bandwagon" and then stick around after, say, the 2004 ALCS, who cares? It's like a corporation, we're always looking for new blood. And everyone knows Yankees don't condition their farm league. Yankees and their respective fans bring in older talent. That's how it is. So come jump on the bandwagon, pull up a memory. The more the merrier.

While I love fresh fan recruits, I refuse to jump on the player bandwagon. For a lot of reasons. Mostly because I hate how everyone on the Player Wagon acts like they got their first. "I always knew Santana was going to have a huge year!" Kinda like how ALL GUYS always always always have that unduly aggravating tendency to watch a basketball game, and then when there's a foul in like the 2nd quarter, they'll say, "Well, that's it. That's the game right there. Game over." AND THEN, say the team does lose, then they're all, "Well what did I tell you. Foul in the 2nd did them in." There's a 50-50 fucking chance you'll get that right. I could say after tipoff, "Done deal. There's the game" and still have a 50% chance of being right.

So this is why I won't hop on any player wagons anytime soon. I'd much prefer to find some random ass player and decide that he is going to be a superstar this year. Like Placido Polanco or Jeremy Reed. (Both of which are in my fantasy team. Everyone during the draft thought I was nuts for taking these 2 in like the 10 and 12th rounds.) OH JUST WAIT. We'll see who's laughing last. And when my weirdo players are bating .345 by the end of the year, I'm not letting any of you on my wagon. Unless you bring food and beer and a beirut table. (I have the ping pong balls and cups already on the wagon, no worries.)

Then I can be persuaded.

Branded cups

2005-04-20T13:27:00.000-07:00

So when I was in college, every single thing I owned had my sorority letters on it. Everything. After I pledged, my room looked like a leprachaun threw up in it (because our symbol was a shamrock). My sisters used to make fun of me, saying, "You guys got cups made up if you went to get the mail." Which wasn't far from the truth. Every single occasion was a reason to have cups made up.

And now, an embodiment of the fact I'm not in school anymore (besides for the fact that, well, I'm not in school) is that every single last thing on my cubicle is branded with the name of the drug my account works on. I'm drinking out of branded cup, which sits on my branded coaster, and I'm taking notes with branded highlighters on branded notepads. It's ridiculous. I know I'm just getting these things because they're like leftover premiums or something, but I want to tell the account folks that they don't really have to sell me on the drug. Branded coffee mugs and baseball hats are a nice touch to my cubicle decor, but I'm pretty much all in favor of the drug that I work on.

In other news, my parents have taken to that whole "kill time while in the car by talking on cell phone" craze. They always used to make fun of my younger sister because she couldn't walk to the bathroom without calling someone in the interim. But my mom just called from the car, and basically she is the reason they made that whole no cell phone talking while driving law. Even if she's just talking to whoever is in the passenger seat, she loses focus on the road. I've definitely been in the car with her while she's telling a story, and when she loses her train of thought, the car just slows to a stop.

So she just called to say hi, and I hear all this honking in the background, and I'm like, what the hell is going on? So she says, "Oh nothing, everyone's passing me though. Oh 2 boys just drove up and gave me the finger." And then she cheerfully notes, "They're your age!"

I had to get off the phone because I was legitimately concerned she was going to roll down her window and say, Hi! I have a nice daughter who you guys would like. She loves baseball.

That's usually her "selling point" when she meets someone on line at the supermarket or something, and there's a "very handsome boy" there. "You would love my daughter. She lives in the city, and she's a big sports fan!"

My mom is the best. Seriously. Plus at least if she's calling me at work, she doesn't ask, "Did I just wake you up?" My youngest sister still hasn't caught on to the fact that I work. She'll call at like 2 and when I don't pick up the phone screaming things like, 'YO HOLLA SISTA!' and instead try to keep my voice to a professional "indoor voice," she immediately asks, "Hi did I wake you up?" Finally I said, "Ok. From now on, go by this general rule. Whenever you call me during the day from Monday-Friday, I am up. And have been for probably some time." Ah I shouldn't complain. It's a good day when you have your whole family calling you. You know how there's people have this really biting sense of humor? And then when they actually laugh at something you say, it means twice as much? That's how I feel when my youngest sister and my dad calls, because they don't call as much as my mom and other sister, so it's twice as good to hear from them! Even if they are setting me up with road rage ridden delinquents or "waking me up."

Thoughts while I'm waiting for work to land on my desk

2005-04-20T11:17:00.000-07:00

So I'm just wondering something. It's April 20, and today is Don Mattingly's birthday. Did Donnie Baseball smoke a lot solely because he has the distinction of being born on 4/20? Realize I'm saying this all faceiously because I think the whole "oooh lets smoke it's 4/20" thing is just about the most idiotic idea in the world to endorse. I feel bad for Mattingly almost. I would NEVER want a birthday on April 20, just because everytime someone asked when my birthday was and I told him, I'd have to deal with 1 out of every 10 people saying, "Hahaha! 4/20!" And then I would have to dropkick him.

In my rankings of innocuously aggravating people, the 4/20 bozos are hovering right around the dingbats on the subway who listen to their ipods at full volume so that-despite the headphones-everyone on the train can hear every single last asinine lyric.

I was watching the Goonies last night because what else is there to do on an 80 degree night at 3 in the morning when you're tired of reading old press releases for Spring Break Shark Attack? And there's scene I'd like to call your attention to. When they're in the basement of the Fratelli's restaurant and they're trying to "get to the lowest point possible" so Mikey takes a shovel and trys to dig through the concrete floors. Here's the scene. We're all very luckily I have a photographic memory and procure this type of information at will, exactly for these types of emergency situations:

Brand: Mikey, what are you doing? You little...
Mikey: Brand.
Brand: Give me that. There's nothing buried under there.
Mikey: There is something buried under there, Josh.
Brand: This is the twentieth century, Mikey.
Mikey: The map says there's something buried under there. There's gotta be.
Brand: Come on, get off it.
Mouth: Look it! I've got an idea. Why don't we just pour chocolate all over the floor, and let Chunk eat his way through?
Chunk: Okay Mouth, that's all I can stand. And I can't stand no more!
(Then the water bottle Chunk's drinking out of starts wobbling!)
Chunk: I got it. I got it. I got it!
(And then the water bottle falls over and breaks. Those nutty kids. Hilarious hijinx abounding.)
Chunk: I don't got it.
Others: You klutz. (I LOVE it when people in movies say things in unison! For real)

Let me preface this with saying that since I have genetically passed on hearing issues, as in I can hear about 35% of what people say, I have to watch the tv with captioning on. So this wasn't as an astute catch as I wish it was: Mikey calling Brand "Josh." I had to look it up, but apparently Josh Brolin is Brand? Why does that name sound familiar? Was he married to Streisand or something? I don't know.

Also, this scene reminds me of baseball. I swear to God. There's something wrong with me. And this is why. The part when Chunk is being a KLUTZ. “Look it! I've got an idea. Why don't we just pour chocolate all over the floor, and let Chunk eat his way through?”? But Chunk had had it, and that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. (water cooler breaks...and scene.)

I feel Chunk’s pain right now. I held my tongue when 2 weeks ago, New York Press listed A-Rod as the 50th Most Loathsome New Yorker. Rolled my eyes all winter when Holier-than-thou Schilling and his congregation took shots at #13. Shrugged off all these ridiculous claims that the Yankees’ third baseman is a curse/overpaid/overrated. But now, in the words of the immortal Chunk, “Okay, Mouth, that’s all I can stand, and I can’t stand no more!”

I'm fed up. I mean it. I also stupidly decided to jump on this whole New York Post Immortal Medallions Collection thing. I'm such an idiot. Of course, now that I've started buying the little bastards at 3 bucks a pop every morning, I can't stop now. I guess it will look pretty cool when I'm finished, but I also know that when it's displayed prominently on my mantle, I will invariably hear from whatever visitor I may have over, "I can't believe you actually wasted your money on that." And I won't be able to say they're entirely wrong, too, because I'm spending $60 when all is said and done, and this is $60 coming out of the wallet of a girl who has volunteered for a spinal tap medical research study, so she can pay her cell phone bill.

You're killing me, Smalls...

2005-04-19T23:13:00.000-07:00

Today was the second day in a row I didn't get to watch a single inning. Work is beating me senseless. Not unlike the way offense is beating the Big Unit senseless. I'm very, very confused. Not nervous yet. Even though my buddy pointed out that the only time the Yanks ever won a title with this kind of start was in 1977. <>

But then again, no one ever came back from a 3-0 deficit. Pretty soon Yank fans are going to be the ones adopting the "Gotta Believe" mentality.

I'm not even going to watch Sportscenter tonight. That's right, that's what I said. I hate listening to players talk about a loss. Of any team, but obviously least of all the bombers. Just once, I want to hear a losing player say, "The only reason we lost was because my horoscope said we would" or "You may think we lost, but if a tree falls in a forest...you know how that is" or "Loss, schmoss, there's 2 naked dancers in my bedroom as we speak. Who's the loser now, asswipe?"

I really like how Mariano (cat), whenever I'm writing, puts his head at the edge of the keyboard and sleeps like that. I love it. It doesn't matter if I wake up in the middle of the night to write something down, Mo wakes up too and jumps on the desk and puts his head right by the esc key in the upper left hand corner.

High and away.

Galvanizing my manic posts and ramblings

2005-04-19T09:02:00.000-07:00

It's been a psychotic last week, so I decided to "wordsmith" my previous nonsensical posts into an actual story:
******

My boss is in the process of buying a new apartment, so he says to me, "A study once reported, the 3 most stressful things to do in life are switch jobs, move, or get a divorce." (Yeah, I think this is just how people in the pharmaceutical business talk. No claim can be made without a clinical trial to support it, I guess.) Then he goes on, "But I'm thinking for you the most stressful things involve a player getting traded, away games, and the playoffs."

He's not too far from the truth. As if the trials and tribulations of post-college life weren't taxing enough, baseball is officially making my head spin.

On Monday, I spend 12 hours in a conference room only to re-emerge to voicemails like, "Are you watching this game?? 9 to nothi--agghhh, make that 13! GRAND SLAM! I gotta go!" I can't keep up with this sport any better than my manic buddy could keep up with score of the Yankee's 19-run freak show.

Maybe "stressful" isn't the right word for it. It's more like the type of anxiety you get when you go to Vegas, and upon walking into the casino, you're instantly cocooned in a surround-sound system of ringing slot machines, billowing cigarette smoke, and a sea of eyes all darting around furiously. And somewhere at the core of all this, is the reason you're there: for the delirious rush of gambling, for the thrill of getting emotionally involved in something that may or may not pay off.

It's gotten to the point where I want to pull a Zach Morris move, like when he'd be on the throes of adolescent disaster, and he'd say, "Time out!"--hand gesture and all--and a convenient freeze frame would ensue. See, I have a vague feeling that some altercation occurred, involving a "steroid-ish" right fielder, beer, and an edgier version of Steve Barton. But I don't know all the details since I was still reeling from some story I heard about A-rod saving an 8-year-old's life.

What the hell was A-rod's PR rep thinking? I've heard of people like Tori Spelling popping out of the woodwork to donate their fingers to special ed children without hands or something. But I always thought that type of stuff was reserved as a last-ditch effort to jump back into the charitable limelight. Christ, A-rod's in the middle of a 3-game series in Boston. He needs publicity about as much as Britney's matrimonial life does.

Let the record show that I love A-rod. But more specifically, I love A-rod when he's screaming at other teams, when he's in the thick of verbal assaults, and when he's got that competitive yet unnerving Mike Tyson look in his eyes. I love him because he's not Jeter or Mussina or Hideki, and not trying to be. Because I can I picture him throwing his glove against his locker with enough force to wear down the leather. He's intense, and I much prefer this perception of him to the one where he saves little boys from incoming trucks.

Of course, I know this story isn't fabrication or anything, but I also know it's a completely fruitless, unnecessary, and--quite possibly--damaging human interest piece. It's like in My Cousin Vinny: right after the hearing, Ralph Macchio's friend asks Vinny why he didn't call any witnesses, and Vinny responds, "Stan, you're in a Ala-f*ng-bama. You come from New York. You killed a good ol' boy. There is NO WAY this case isn't going to trial." We're all elated some kid's life was saved, but this story would probably hold a lot more clout on Madison Avenue. A-rod, you're in Red Sox f*ng Nation. You come from New York. You didn't play for Boston. There is NO WAY you'll ever been respected there.

So after I finally get my head around this out-of-the-blue slice-of-life news byte, I realize it's the tail end of the Sox-Yanks series and we've come back to tie the score 5-5. And I begin to feel like the underdog lightweight boxer in the corner whose coach is icing my black eyes and pouring water down my throat, and then two seconds later I'm shoved back into the ring for another round of psychological brutality. Huh? We didn't win? Alas, there's no time to dwell on this, courtesy an incident in the outfield that spurred on enough conflicting stories to rival those of Kobe and his Denver girl.

But a day later, I finally get around to watching the dramatic right field cinematography, only to discover it's old news because the Boss has "issued a statement."

I know there are newsreels to feed and all, but come on, cut me a little slack here. I already live on the 5th floor of a walkup. I can't take this out-of-breath exhaustion from my favorite sport acting like it just swallowed a bottle of Stacker II's.

I should be grateful I don't have to see a "Winners Never Quit and Quitters Never Win" marquee on Yankee Stadium, which was the Boss's cunning resolution to a historic 22-0 loss last year. But "issuing a statement"? Is he the head of Homeland Security? I scanned his sputtering barrage of growls and couldn't help but see why other fans hate him so much. I always saw the Boss as this caricature, not a real person, kind of like Mr. Rooney in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Always shaking his fist at someone, but pretty much a joke that no one pays attention to.

Maybe I'm just overly defensive when it comes to the Bombers, but I felt like his criticism of the Yanks' losing streak was overtly disloyal. It'd be like a boyfriend getting sloppily drunk in a bar and yelling at some guy for hitting on his girlfriend. So right before the couple leaves the bar, the girlfriend goes back to the guy and apologizes for her boyfriend's behavior. Not cool. You're a team; right or wrong, you don't divorce yourself from your boyfriend/the Yankees because of how others perceive them.

But before I can properly mull over this new gem from the Bronx's New Motivational Speaker, it's 10PM on Monday night, and the Yankees just tied the record for the most runs scored in a second inning. Most days, I get into work at 10, check box scores for 3 hours, and then when an account executive rolls up and tells me my taglines have a tight deadline of one hour, I decide to open up Word and bang them out. The Yankees acted like someone reminded them to stop messing around on the Internet when they need to get work done. They didn't just break a losing streak with a 5-1 win. They scored 19 runs. This is absurd, that's all there is to it. Whether you're a Yankee fan or not, please admit this whole scenario is just laughable.

It's almost 2AM now, and I'm hoping for a bye day before someone tosses down the next baseball trump card. Maybe I can squeeze in a few hours of sleep before I wake up to breaking news that Steinbrenner used cattle prods to drive his team into getting their asses in gear.

I don't ask for much. Just to be able to watch a few games where the outcome of the game isn't eclipsed by another outrageous B-side story. It's a long marathon of a season, and I've already stopped about 6 times along the road to have Gatorade splashed in my mouth. Maybe this week will dial it down a notch, because while I love the dense dynamic of baseball, I don't think my heart or my sanity can sustain this pace all season.

None of us is as dumb as all of us

2005-04-18T23:18:00.000-07:00

I don't mind working 12 hour days if it involves sitting at my desk and doing independent copywriting. Not that I don't play well with others. I'm just always like 5 seconds away from saying at meetings, "Enough brainstorming. I'll do it myself." I don't know where this arrogance comes from. I'm a copywriter surrounded by account executives who have been doing this for years. But 12 hours throwing ideas on a wall, sifting through clinical data with others, trotting out words like "tactical plan" and "messaging framework" and "positioning"...not my cup of tea. Fortunately, I swear to God I think I hit the jackpot with my boss. I went from working at a publishing company, where my situation there made "the Devil Wears Prada" look like working at a high school carnival. My boss at said publisher has the distinction of being in the driver's seat of my All-Star Car Wreck team. Speaking of the Devil...yeah, I know. They're fueling my fires in hell right now.

So I quit and now whenever me and all my coworkers go out for drinks, I'm without fail approached by at least 5 different people who strongly and adamantly affirm that my boss is the coolest guy in the world, and the smartest guy in the company, and they're so jealous I work for him. My mom says karma is coming back and helping me out after I suffered through 8 months working for the most miserable woman on the planet. To put things in context, when I went to Spring Training last year for vacation, and put up my Auto-Response on my email, I come back to work after a week to find that my boss had responded to my auto response with:

Scout-
I've tweaked the copy on your auto-response. Next time you go away, please use this message instead: "I will be away from the office from ((DAY OF THE WEEK! and date)), and will be returning ((DAY OF THE WEEK! and date)). Please contact Phyllis at ext: 8734 if you need immediate assistance."

You'd think my auto-reponse was something like WOOHOO!! I'm in Spring Training and you're not!! See ya in a week suckers! I think the only thing she changed was the dire need to assert the day of the week. The real straw that broke the camel's back was when she decided to "take over" an 80 page report I had been working on when it was 99% finished. "I think this project was a little too big for you. I'm going to take over from here."

I was fuming, and said as such. To which she responded, "have you ever though about doing something that involves less writing? You should think about PR. You're such a pretty girl, I bet you would do well doing things like that. And it would be fun! You could talk on the phone!" See, women know how to push other women's buttons.

So I left my job without any backup job, and luckily landed my current job within a week. And the icing on the cake was when she forwarded an email that went to my old work account:

Scout-
Please inform people of your new address.

Fwd msg:
May have something for you at the New Yorker if you're ready to leave medical publishing.
--PB

HA! Yeah the NYer job never worked out, obviously. But she doesn't know that.

So I leave work today and discover the Yankees won by 11 runs. The whole situation is just ludicrous. I'm still trying to get my head around it. 19 freaking runs. Madness. If I've said it once, I've said it 1000 times. Everything in sports trumps what came before it. It's like in the play A Winter's Tale:

What you do
Still betters what is done.
When you speak (sweet)
I'd have you do it ever: when you sing,
I'd have you buy,and sell so: give alms,
Pray so: and for the ordering your affairs,
To sing them too.
When you dance, I wish you
A wave of the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that: move still,still so:
And own no other function.
Each your doing,
(So singular, in each particular)
Crowns what you are doing, in the present deeds,
That all your acts, are Queens.

A new low perhaps? Comparing Shakespeare to sports? Shakespeare is rolling over in his grave, seeing someone use his immortal words to describe a baseball game. Well, either that, or he's rolling over laughing about this 19 run hysteria. I know I would be. You spend your whole life extrapolating humor from things like amensia and mistaken identities, and the most humorous thing you have to inspire you is the fact men have to make out with men on stage because women couldn't act back then. And now Shakespeare is looking down on the earth, "troubling deaf heaven with his bootless cries," muttering things like, "This is bullshit. I was born in the wrong century. This sports thing? Talk about a fucking comedy of errors..."

Wow. And I thought I was nuts....

2005-04-18T00:06:00.000-07:00

It's one thing to roll your eyes at superfluous Rounders references, it's another thing to dedicate a site to firing the loser.

Don't know what to make of this, just came across it. At first I laughed, half because someone is even more insane than me, half because there are only 6 signatures here. And then I was like, aww who cares. My mom gave me a book for my birthday a few years ago, like one of those "Finding Happiness" or like Anna Quindlen's Guide to Life or something of that Mother-Daughter gift giving ilk. And there's a line in it that says, "Run your own race." While I don't normally subscribe to any kind of wisdom purported in books that during my time as Barnes and Noble employee I would file under Self-Help, I like this line. Which is why I finally decided the site is weird. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Run your own race.

Last night, some chick taps the guy I was talking to on the shoulder and says, "Excuse me, people are trying to stand here." As if me and the dude were flapping around and dancing and taking up 10 square feet of bar floor space, when in fact we were just standing at the anchor of the bar doing nothing but drinking Red Stripe. And THEN, THE PSYCHO HOSEBEAST TAKES ME BY THE SHOULDERS AND PUSHES ME BACKWARDS and says, "You too."

I was spitting nails, there was literally steam coming out of my ears. She had a backpack on. Not one of those Kelly Taylor early 90's purse/backpacks. I mean, a full-fledged jansport stuff to the zippers. And we weren't exactly in a bar that this type of dress was appropriate (not that there are many L.L. Bean themed bars in the Lower East Side. Or anywhere at all). But we were at one of those trendy bars that I got roped into going to where I was borderline concerned my sneakers would prevent me from getting in. Regardless. My sister said she would have punched her. Which she probably would have. I was actually about to go my standard non-violent approach. The Ghandi-style method of going up to her and apologizing for taking up so much space, and then suggesting that in the future, to avoid these types of real estate issues in bars she should either leave the backpack or start making some trips to the salad bar.

With chicks, that type of comment is fatal. I could have leveled her that alone. BUT i decided to run my own race, and just stare at her icily until she started getting uncomfortable and went to the downstairs part of the bar.

So I'm still trying to get my head around why she had a backpack on. I saw actually a few people last night sporting this look. I think there was some Grateful Dead cover band playing downtown. And for some reason, back when I was always going to those String Cheese, Disco Biscuits, Trey Anastasio, etc. concerts, everyone there wore backpacks. I didn't understand it then either. And I always felt like everyone there was looking at me like, who the hell is this chick? she's all showered and shit. My college roommate got big into following this band Brothers Past around, and she came home after a week with no shoes and with this skirt that looked like it was made from recycled middle school bathroom paper towels. Those stiff brown ones.

A backpack may have been involved too. We all figured she traded her shoes for the skirt. A la Dumb and dumber style:

"Just when I think you can't POSSIBLY get any stupider. You do something like this...AND TOTALLY REDEEM YOURSELF."

Maybe she was running her own race too.

An inspiration to us all

2005-04-17T19:56:00.000-07:00

If franchise ownership doesn't work out this year, it's nice to know he can fall back on motivational speaking.

I don't know what's sadder. This outlash that I find-for whatever reason-incredibly disloyal, or the saccharine, embarassing marquee that still pains me to think about.

I can see why people hate Steinbrenner. I would be so livid if I was Torre right now. Yes, the Yanks are getting their asses kicked all around the east coast, but for Steinbrenner to publicly chastise his team...it's almost like when a boyfriend gets all hammered at a bar and starts making an ass of himself and gets overly jealous. So he starts telling some dude to stop hitting on his girlfriend. And then when the couple leaves, the girlfriend goes back to the dude and apologizes for her boyfriend's behavior. Whether the boyfriend/Yankees are right or wrong, you never divorce yourself from them. You're a team. I think when you're in a relationship, you have the other's back no matter what. I'm writing a story about this right now, so don't be suprised if I roll out this metaphor again...

Well, I could have used Steinbrenner's gems of inspiration yesterday when me and my beirut partner lost in the first round of the tournament. And in all fairness, it was completely my fault. Beforehand, I kept telling him, "alright, this is serious business, no screwing around. I mean it." And he was like, "Um okay well I've probably played in about 4 beirut games my whole life, so...I may disappoint you."

And then, of course, he hit all of the cups except one. And I just didn't come through. Fortunately he was like, "You're lucky Ive seen you play before, so I know this is just a bad day. Because otherwise, you know how much shit I should be giving you for talking such a big game..."

We did manage to walk out of the bar with a mini coors light football helmet he won in a raffle. And somehow I left with a Wilson football with all the team logos on it. Not sure how I ended up with that one though. I didn't win it in a raffle, and I didn't steal it or anything. I think maybe someone who won it didn't feel like holding it anymore, so he gave it to me? I have no idea. But now I have a nice football on my mantle next to my steinbrenner signed baseball, and my 1930's baseball mitt. A lovely memento of an overall outstanding day. Despite losing, the rest of the afternoon was stellar.

I'd rank it in my top 10 weekend nights of 2005 for sure.

My first softball game is tomorrow. I have a feeling I'm going to show up sometime around the 6th inning since it's about 40 minutes from my office and the game starts at 6. I don't mind though, because it's supposed to be around the same type of weather tomorrow.

Oh shit, that reminds me, I definitely said to my partner yesterday, "I think I'm just in a good mood because I'm twitterpated." And he was like "You're what?"

"Remember in Bambi when all the skunks and birds and stuff get all happy because it's the spring? And then the wise old owl says that it's because they're twitterpated, and that's what happens in the spring?"

"Um ok, yeah I think I saw bambi like 15 years ago, though."

Sweet Christ, I hate remembering vintage Scout-nonsense the next day. I have these Monday Quarterback Reflections it seems every Sunday morning. Twitterpated. What is wrong with me. And I wonder why people think I'm nuts.

I'm going to get Haagen Daaz. That's not a threat, it's a promise.

The Good, the Bad, and the Gorgeous Weather

2005-04-17T17:05:00.000-07:00

75 degrees out. Just got back inside from lying out on my roof and listening to the Yankee game on the radio. So the game was less than satisfactory, but the weather is just unbelievable. So at least I got a nice tan, though if I was making deals, I would take getting a hellish sunburn if the Yankees won. I'm still not worried about them. Just annoyed.

I read this story about A-rod saving some 8yr old's life. I hate PR things like that. I'm sure he really did do something to that effect, and I love A-rod, but I love him more when he is a rough around the edges, competitive badass. And of course, this stunt is not going to make anyone say, "Whoa! I always thought A-rod was a minion of Satan! Didn't realize that he has a heart of gold to go with that amazing talent! Guess we were wrong all along about him... A-rod, indeed, is a true Yankee. And quite possibly, a true immortal being."

If I had my druthers, those type of life saving B-side stories would be reserved for Jeter. I like the A-rod B-side stories that involve gratuitous competitiveness and over-the-top intensity.

Do you know who I am? I'm Moe Green...

2005-04-16T02:29:00.000-07:00

...I made my bones when you were going out with cheerleaders.

I'm playing in a beirut tournament in about 10 hours. I may be a little rusty since the last time I played was last weekend. When I was visiting my sister at G-town, I kept blabbering on to her friends about how they shouldn't listen to any alum who says, "The real world sucks!"

Which they shouldn't. Real world is awesome. Yeah I miss college more than Boston misses Pedro. But there's no homework in the real world. Once you're done with work, that's it. No work to do on the weekends. And it's not hard! In college there was always stuff you had to work hard at to learn and pass. The real world isn't challenging. You do what you know how to do. And you only have two things to worry about: bills and not getting fired.

Everything else is cream cheese. Cream cheese and weekend beirut tournaments for people who forgot they don't live in a fraternity basement anymore. Not a bad deal, at all.

I'm sad the Tank lost today. I missed most of the game (!!!!) because I went out to dinner with my friend. In an effort to find a temporary cure for my still troublesome sinus infection, we got Mexican food. And it put me in a good mood, though it didnt help my sinuses at all. There's something about having a spur of the moment dinner with a Mojito, tacos, and flan on a friday night, with your friend you just ran into on the way home from work, that is light and comforting.

Light and comforting but not effective in treating sinusitis. (Sounds like a pharma ad. The quickly read part at the end of the commercial that we in the business know as "fair balance:" "Mexican food is not suitable for all patients and is not indicated for the relief of nasal decongestion. Ask your doctor if chicken burritos are right for you.")

I am still getting double copies of ESPN magazine. This needs to stop. Not only am I not getting my free fleece, but I'm getting two copies of the same issue every month, and getting charged twice. This sounds like a Friends episode. The sitcom-like nuisance of simply trying to cancel one subscription and keep the other.

You know what I thought was weird? Opening day at Fenway was also Varitek and Nixon's birthday and no one mentioned anything about it. I only know because it was on my Page-A-Day Calendar. This is what I don't get about announcers. Not that birthdays are like Aflac Trivia questions. But I would think the captain's birthday would be of more human interest than say, I don't know, how many games the ump has called in the last decade.

The press box works in mysterious ways. Ok, me and Mo are going to bed. My friends wanted me to train him to play beirut and use him as my partner. But seeing as the list of people who like my cat grows shorter pretty much on a daily basis, he would probably clear out the bar in about an hour if I brought him tomorrow to be my partner. That, and he's only a kitten and can't play human drinking games.

2005-04-15T17:23:00.000-07:00

Ok, I know I said I was done with Simmons, heretoforth known by his initials as well as the type of garbage he prints, but someone emailed this to me. Basically it was the equivalent of the fan swiping at Sheffield: to provoke me and get some kind of rise out of me. Nice. Which it did, of course, because I think I've gone insane. I'm like Chris, that guy on the Apprentice who gets all sorts of huffy and apopletic if someone so much as drinks the last of the Powerade. So yes, this did get me pissed off. Now the Yankees are getting railed for not starting fights?? This is lunacy. Plain and simple.

They can't win. If Jeter had charged the mound after getting hit with a pitch, you know what all the Boston fans would be saying?

"THIS JUST PROVES HE'S A PHONY, AND HE'S NOT REALLY IMMORTAL! IT WAS ALL JUST AN ACT. YANKEES SUCK."

No, he shakes it off. I guess BS's friend Jack-o wants some more bench-clearers, but I love the Yankees just as they are. They're not pussies. It'd be like BS going up to Tom Wolfe and wildly flapping his arms about how Tom Wolfe can't write for sh*t, and then BS knocking over Wolfe's bookcase so that it falls on top of him. Bestsellers flying everywhere. Do you think Tom Wolfe would retaliate against a writer for ESPN?

The Yankees won't knock over any bookcases.

They know that the Red Sox are beneath them.

****

Last night's incident also played into something larger that's happening with this rivalry. The Red Sox keep pushing this Yankees team around, whether it's fans popping right fielders at Fenway, Jeter getting plunked in the helmet for the umpteenth time, Red Sox players calling out A-Rod during spring training, Varitek nailing A-Rod in the chops or whatever ... and the Yankees keep taking the high road and not sticking up fot themselves. According to one of my editors, the Red Sox have plunked 68 Yankee batters since the start of the 2001 season (compared to just 36 Boston batters hit by Yankee pitchers), including a 5-2 advantage this season. Talking to my buddy last night, I joked how the way the Sox keep throwing at Jeter (intentional or unintentional) is vaguely reminscent of the way Cobra Kai kept going after Daniel-San, to the point I keep waiting for Mike Timlin to scream at him during batting practice, "What's the matter, Derek, Mommy not hear to dress ya?"

"I'm so tired of taking the high road," Jack-O complained. "This team has no [euphemism for something that guys have that girls don't have]. We're a bunch of [euphemism for something that you could also call a group of cats]. Seriously, how many times does Jeter have to be hit? Even tonight, Ortiz is leaning right over the plate and the Unit doesn't even dust him off. I'm embarrassed to root for these guys."

That raises a larger question: Where the hell is Steinbrenner during all of this? Twenty years ago, if Rivera didn't throw at someone after Jeter got nailed in the helmet, he would have questioned Rivera's manhood AND fired the pitching coach. Now his team has been bullied for a solid year, with no repercussions, and we're only six months removed from the greatest choke job in sports history. I'm really starting to wonder if George is in a nursing home somewhere and nobody has broken the story yet.

Sheffield started getting all WHAT??

2005-04-15T14:03:00.000-07:00

Quite possibly the most intelligent line to ever escape from a New Englanders mouth, courtesy of 16-year-old Rachel...

You really can't argue with her airtight logic, especially not when it's so eloquently expressed...

35,000 fans in Fenway, the best eyewitness they have to the crime is a 16 year old with a questionable grasp on the English language. Point being, you should only refer to yourselves as "idiots" if you're doing it quasi-jokingly, and you have some modicum of intelligence to make it, in fact, a joke. But if the collective brain cell count of Massachussetts is roughly the same as their World Series Titles (ooh--count it, AND ONE), then the whole idiot phenomenon is bordering on sad and pathetic...

I'm just saying, is all.

2005-04-15T12:38:00.000-07:00

So Nietzche once said, "if everyone is guilty, then no one is guilty." And basically this applies to everything, including all this Sheffield crap. If everyone is writing/talking about Sheffield's selfish ambition to field a ball out of the hands of a paying fan, then no one is. "Makes for good copy," my mom emailed me. Now I'm starting to think that the reason the Yanks and the Sox are the two highest payrolled teams (DRINK! reference to payrolls) is because Selig is paying them millions to perpetuate the whole rivalry drama. Like a fixed boxing match or something. I'm imaging the two teams huddled in Selig's uber-secret bungalow, and he's slipping them bills under the table with instructions like, "That Artest thing was the best thing that ever happened to the NBA. What can you do to make it happen?" Tek and A-Rod put their hands up in a "Hey don't look at us" way, and protest, "We've got families to feed, we can't risk another suspension."

Giambi's out, since he's already pushing enough media hype. Jeter: can't ruin squeaky clean image. Bernie, too old. (For now. I suspect at some point there will be a bench-clearing brawl instigated when Renteria, in an effort to prove himself to the Red Sox, joking stealths away with Bernie's guitar. And then at his next at-bat, he uses the GUITAR instead of a BAT, as the Idiots in the dugout chortle and slap their knees. Those kidders! Mussina yells, "That's not a bat! I can't pitch to something that isn't regulation equipment!" Johnson replaces him while the bullpen warms up. "I'll pitch to anything," he grumbles. Bernie, slightly befuddled, starts jogging towards the batter's box to retrieve said bat. Bernie kicks Renteria in the shin, Renteria retaliates in vintage Boston-style by breaking the guitar over his knee and then staking Bernie in the chest with one of the broken shards. The fans go wild. Torre wakes up. Security is heightened at Yankee Stadium on Calendar night, for fear beligerent fans will make paper airplanes out of them and throw them at Boston outfielders.)

I just went outside to get air. I have on my Yankee jacket, (it's still a game day, I dont get why everyone thinks that if the Yanks lose, I'm going to sheepishly retire my jacket/hat). One of my office building's maintenance men said, "Can't believe you're still wearing that." So many things wrong with this statement. I got that alot after the ALCS. If anything, I wore my hat out MORE after the ALCS, not asking for trouble, but because I didn't want to feed any preconceived notions about Bronx fans being fair-weather and soft.

Maybe the highlight of my morning though was coming in today and having a different maintenance man come up to me and deadpan, "I hate those motherf*ckers." (And he didn't mean the Bombers.)

In other news, I basically swallowed whole a McDonald's egg and cheese biscuit, along with the hashbrown. They didn't even know what hit them.

My coworker comes up behind me this morning and says, "Hey, howd last night go?" And I turn around and mutter, "Thanks, jackass." But alas, he really didn't even know who the yankees were playing, or if they won.
"Oh. Um, did the Yankees lose or something?"
I have to remember that not everyone is as witty as those yankee-haters who trot out this line...and that sometimes, a coworker just wants to make pleasant conversation. That's sound advice right there.

I.O.U.

2005-04-15T08:16:00.000-07:00

Consider this an I.O.U. for a post saturated with my usual rapist wit, analyzing the debacle in right field last night. I'm jut way too hungover right now, but I can't wait til I have a Burger King breakfast in me. My panacea.
I feel like hell this morning, I'd pretty much rather have my eyeballs spooned out than go to work today. And you know what? This, of course, is all Boston's fault.
You know, the Red Sox are making it very difficult for me to like them. It's one thing to win over my favorite team. It's a whole new ball game (DRINK! baseball cliche) when it's a matter of compromising my own health and well being.
Which I'd say this whole hangover thing falls under.
They just better hope a Croissanwich fixes all this. I'm not kidding.

Boston Fans Subscribe to Own Nicknames

2005-04-14T10:26:00.000-07:00

BOSTON (April 14) – After being routed by their sworn enemy the Yankees, Boston declared April 13 as the date for the collective recognition that both the Red Sox franchise and their fans are, in fact, idiots.

The decision came after a 5-2 loss with Schilling fizzling out just in time for the New York bullpen to plug up Boston’s bats. Mariano Rivera, who accepted his faceious standing ovation at Fenway with hallmark charisma and grace, capped off the evening with a quick and scoreless 9th inning.

“I’m going to have a take a page from Schilling’s book when I say, ‘Nothing makes me happier than shutting up 35,000 fans in Boston,” said Rivera.

Sparkling middle relief performances from Sturtze and Gordon had Sox fans scratching their heads, with the dumbfounded confusion continuing as Rivera finished them off.

Said one Fenway Faithful, “I don’t get it. I thought we owned Rivera! Hell, I even said his career was dead after the second loss. I just don’t get it…”

Another fan echoed these sentiments, “What’s going on? I thought blowing 2 regular season saves in the first week of baseball automatically means you go from fame to shame!”

Despite this particular fan’s ability to rhyme, he later admitted. “Gosh, I guess we ARE idiots. And not in the fun-loving, jokester kind of way. Just plain old imbeciles.” Laughing, he went on, “Well, I’d guess we have to be to think we could ever touch the Yankees again!”

Boston officials met behind closed doors to discuss the future of the franchise image, as well as what type of reception Rivera should receive the next time New York plays in Fenway.

“We’re all a little shaken up, here” General Manager Theo Epstein remarked. “I think it’s important we focus now on exactly what type of public image we want to project. Are we still America’s underdogs? Are we idiots or defending champs? Is Rivera revered or mocked? These are the types of questions we’re hoping to have answers for by the time the 3rd week of the season rolls around.”

Bill Simmons, self-proclaimed spokesman for Red Sox Nation, could not be reached for comment. His wife, who prefers to remain nameless, did say that her husband was currently in "the lab, conjuring up a new spin to why the Yankees still suck."

As usual, Yankee players had little to say about the outcome of the game. When asked about what this suggested about the dynamic between the Red Sox and his ace closer, Manager Joe Torre commented, “Are you serious? It’s the 8th game of the season.”

The Yankees appeared to be nonplussed as they exited the stadium. Captain Derek Jeter shrugged off the game, as is typical for the eerily confident shortstop, “People keep saying, ‘Mo’s back!’ You know, he was never gone. God, he’s a future Hall-of-Famer. You’d have to be an idiot to write off his talent as anything less.”

And now as of April 13, Boston fans will officially accept that, indeed, this is what they truly are. Nothing more.

Just curious

2005-04-13T23:03:00.000-07:00

Does anyone know what the money line is on the fact Boston fans will talk about A-rod going 0 for 5? Because clearly that was the defining aspect of the game. I'm just wondering. Since they don't have Mo as their headliner anymore...

6th inning

2005-04-13T21:15:00.000-07:00

In all fairness, Schilling pitched decently. But not well enough to back up his penchant for talking a big game. To talk like that, you need to pitch a 1-, 2-hitter, maybe. Anything else, you're the same as the guy who calls his last beirut cup and then just hits the rim. (And then inevitably, his partner goes, "Dude, how cool would it have been if you had hit that?")

Also, shouldn't you outgrow talking sh*t after the age of, like, 27? I mean, geez, he's 41. When you're that age, your vocabulary should be dominated by expressions like "trousers," "slickers," "blouses," "cross," (aka "angry") and "slacks."

I guess Schilling's mom never talked to him ("stern"--there's another one) about using "expletives."

Sweet Christ, get the pine tar off your hats. You look ridiculous.

You know how there's rules against tattoos in the MLB? Because they're distracting? HOW DOES THAT RULE NOT APPLY TO BOSTON'S REPERTOIRE OF HAIRCUTS? It's like in Teen Wolf when Michael J. Fox wins all those games as THE WOLF, mainly because who wants to play man-to-man against someone whose body sweat is multiplied exponentially by a full suit of hair? How can you pitch to Johnny Damon? Poor Tanyon, it must be like pitching to a unicorn or something equally mythical and distracting and ultimately useless.

Mom: 1, Scout: 0

2005-04-13T21:05:00.000-07:00

So my mom calls in the middle of the 3rd inning, and if you thought it was something really important that a call in the middle of the game was necessary, you'd be wrong. She informed me that she actually reads my blog once, and that I "shouldn't be using so many...um...expletives..."

She's probably right. Also, if you thought I wasn't 24 years old, you'd be wrong.

Back to the game. Who did these commentators sleep with to get this job? Because it's a safe bet they didn't reach the press box on their skills. Christ, I could do this:

On Nixon fielding a single from Posada: "What he did well was get the ball."

I have so many questions about this analysis. I'm not sure how much else was involved in that play, but apparently actually obtaining the ball was KEY.

2 RUN HOMER BY GIAMBI!!!

Surprised I didn't hear, "What he did well was hit the ball over the fence."

Between Pitches: A Story

2005-04-13T15:41:00.000-07:00

Ahh love how baseball lends itself so well to allegorical societal divisions...

“All happy families are alike. Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” --Tolstoy

Casper appeared to be engaged in some kind of gummy bear appraisal process. He would select a piece from the bag and then would hold it up against the stadium lights. And then after inspecting it, though for what Dolores wasn’t sure, and once the candy passed inspection, he would throw it happily in his mouth. Between innings, Dolores would more carefully observe this ritual, and it wasn’t until the 5th inning that she concluded he was checking the color. It was also around this time that most of the 55,000 fans had come to the conclusion that the Yankees were going to lose the league series against the Red Sox.

“Can I have a red one?” Dolores asked, upon watching the 10-year-old boy examine and then discard a clear one.

Casper shook his head briskly, “Nope. I’m not giving those away.”

“You’re not giving them away? What are they, Rolling Stones tickets?”

“Huh? I’m saving the red ones for luck. And I’m throwing out the clear ones because those are the Yankees.”

Dolores wasn’t quite certain how the clear ones had been dubbed representative of the Yankees. But she was very much familiar with the unrelenting superstition that saturated the minds and hearts of Boston fans. So she didn’t question his motives. Dolores was lucky enough to acquire tickets to Game 7 of the playoff series, through a connection at the Big Sister program at the YMCA. Having just moved to New York after graduating from Amherst, she had no friends in this championship-spoiled Yankee territory, let alone any transplanted Boston fans like herself that she could bring. Except Casper, Dolores’s assigned Little Brother, who oddly subscribed to a fierce devotion of the Sox. Dolores wondered what his friends and parents thought of this. In New York, she thought, this was akin to dropping out of med school to follow Phish or something.

Their seats were in the third to last row of the second to top tier of the stadium, but Dolores could distinguish each player through sheer knowledge of their positions on the field. She squinted her eyes to blur the view, and they became amorphous shapes of white and reddish/grey on a geometrically perfect field.

“Let’s go Red Sox!” Clap, clap, clapclapclap. “Let’s go Red Sox!” From somewhere not too far from where they were sitting, someone had resurrected the go-to chant. Casper looked up at Dolores, and she smiled at him.

“Let’s go Red Sox!” Casper didn’t get up from his seat, but he made his hands into fists and began alternately pounding his thighs back and forth, without discerning the presence of any kind of rhythm to the increasingly loud chants. Dolores was always fascinated by how black people’s palms were pink. She watched his tiny fists, and the tops of them looked like cinnamon buns, swirls of black and peach.

“How do you start yelling something so everyone else does it too?’ Casper asked.

“Umm, I’m not sure. I think someone just decided to do it and then other people join in.”

“Can anyone do it?”

“I’m pretty sure. Want to try?”

Casper made some kind of indignant huff to indicate “Yeah, right.” But he made it with the type of muddled emotion that Dolores took to mean, “Neat idea, but I’m scared to do it, but I still want to look tough and cool about it.”

Which was fine, because Dolores was in such cloudy mindset right then that she didn’t herself even believe she could muster up the tenacity to motivate the ill-received Boston fans. There were patches of red jerseys scattered throughout the stadium, interspersed among the white and navy masses of New York die-hards. The Red Sox were an inning away from beating the Yankees, and nothing made sense to Dolores. She knew she should be spilling outside of herself, that feeling of being so happy that it’s almost like you’re frustrated with your body for physically confining your euphoria. It was like meeting a celebrity on the street, and you know you should be emitting some kind of radioactive glow of exhilaration. But the intangible boundary between “real people” and famous ones has been blurred, and it’s almost as if it is not even happening.

“Can I have a clear one, Casper? I’ll throw it out, I swear, I just want to see it for a sec.”

Casper gave her a look most people reserve to react to “Is it cool if I take the blame for you crashing dad’s Mercedes?” Confusion mixed with surprise, morphing into the “okayyyy-but-it’s-your-funeral” shrug.

Dolores held the clear gummy bear up against the stadium lights. It was a shapeless morsel, the edges melting against equally formless sights of fans on the opposite side of the stadium. Dolores thought about how, to those fans on the right field side, she and Casper and the left field half were the indistinguishable blurs. She gave the clear gummy bear back to Casper to discard, not before briefly musing that against the bright lights, it almost looked like a small ghost.

* * *

It was the first time Helen had ever left a Yankee game before it even ended. The Boston fans elevated their aggressive cheering with each inning, directly proportional to the diminishing hope of New York supporters. The riotous chants had become a cacophonous manifestation of the divided stadium, with cries of “Let’s go Red Sox!” combating cheers of “1918,” the battle cry of Yankees fans, referencing the last Boston World Series victory.

It was like a tug-of-war of screaming, and the pinstripe devotees gradually relinquished their momentum, so that the muddled shouts soon sifted into distinct Red Sox cheers. To lose like this, at home—it was worse than seeing an ex-boyfriend dancing with his new flame to the old flame’s favorite song. She could clearly make out the various groupings on the other side of the stadium, since Yankee fans had one by one gone from up on their feet, optimistic for a rally, to defeatedly slumping in their seats, debating their will to live.

Of course, the obnoxious Boston fans, inflated with adrenaline and hyena-like hunger for the inevitable victory, needed to be bolted to the ground to keep from floating away. It was the saddest thing Helen had ever seen.

Helen kept tugging on the brim of her baseball hat down as she left the stadium, mostly so could keep her head down and cry privately. She was still holding the bag of peanuts she bought, and upon realizing this, she began crying a little harder. Because three hours ago, she was on the brink of a historic night and now, she was walking away from Yankee stadium for the last time until next year. And because she hated how many peanuts were still left. I should have gotten a hot dog, she thought, because those are snacks specifically designed for one.

The eruptions from the game never dwindled, but they became slightly less abrasive the further she walked away. A banner on the stadium boasted “26 World Championships” with every single championship year listed. A century of pre-eminence etched on the wall that boldly separated Helen from the impending defeat. As she neared the subway, Helen glanced again at the imposing structure and what it held inside. And it was like she wasn’t even there at all.

The Converted...

2005-04-13T12:44:00.000-07:00

I don't know what to make of this. But yesterday I went in for my chiropractor appointment (which-as usual-fixed my back for about 3 hours before it returned to being a mess of knots, spasms, and rock-like...things...up and down my trapezius). So my Dr. Mike, who's from Boston, starts in with his whole, "Oooh so howd the Yankees do the other day?" Hilarious. And I told him to back off because the stress is making my back situation worse, and he can't deliberately aggravate my condition because it's against the hypocratic oath.

Yeah, that's right, that's what I said.

AND THEN, he says, "I'm just messing around. Actually, I just converted. I bought a Yankee hat the other day. I'm a Yankee fan now."

!!!!!!

Ok, setting aside the whole "well he must not have been a true fan" argument for a second, this is just making my head spin. I can understand someone converting from being a Jets fan to a Giants fan, or arbitrarily becoming an Indians fan instead of a Pirates fan, or something. But this is like converting to Judiasm after to going to Catholic school your whole life.

How can you be raised one way and then all of a sudden just starting eating Kosher? (Well, actually my little sister did this when she dated a Jewish guy. And so whenever we went out to eat together, she always had to remind me, "Dont forget! Order the ranch on the side! AND make sure they don't bring it on the same plate!" I was very impressed with her devotion. No offense to the religion itself, but there isnt a man on God's green earth that could induce me to give up bacon, egg, and cheeses.)

Regardless. So there you have it. Dr. Mike is a Yankee fan. I have no idea why. My mom, of course, says, "Well I think he likes you and knows if he's a Yankee fan he'll have a better chance!" Spoken like a true mother trying to marry her daughter off to a doctor. She also knows my 3 rules. The 3 rules being the absolutely necessary, no questions, no exceptions parameters for any guy I date. And they sound simple, but trust me, finding someone with all 3 is a lot harder than it looks. As evidenced by the fact I've found all of 3, and 2 of them almost died from my cat (so I guess the 4th is "not allergic to Mariano Rivera."):
1. Makes me really laugh
2. Loves the Yankees and sports. Really loves them, as in feels an emotional connection to the game, and likes hearing all those B-side stories about the players. Just simply loves baseball. You get the idea.
3. At the end of the evening/hanging out/meeting him for first time, he has to say something to the effect of, "When will I see you again?" Yeah I dont know. Gets me every time, though.

So of course my mom is now like, "Well look at that he has all 3 now!" I don't think that counts, because doctors HAVE to say, 'When am I going to see you again?" So no dice there.

I trotted out my metaphor to my mom, telling her that I already have 162 dates lined up this spring. But I don't think she got it, as she said, "WITH WHO?"

You can understand why she'd be confused, though.

So moral of the story: Boston sucks.

Baby steps, ESPN, baby steps...

2005-04-13T08:42:00.000-07:00

Sweet Christ, it's about time someone at that website decided to appeal to all those living outside the boundaries of RSN

A-Rod=Yankee Haters Scapegoat

2005-04-12T23:57:00.000-07:00

I'm so tired of everyone getting all over A-rod. Not that I think he's a saint. He's not too friendly, and he seems a little rough around the edges, but he's competitive. Really, really competitive. And I love that about him. Yeah, maybe he made an error or two, but I have a feeling he's going to have the best year in his career this season. The guy is in a lose lose situation. If he acts like Jeter, he's phony. If he's devoid of pretense, he's an asshole. He's effectively getting railed for all the things he would get railed for if he didn't do. If that makes any sense. He's not Jeter, and he shouldn't be. Mickey Mantle wasn't Roger Maris. Arod, when all is said and done, will end up being one of the best baseball players ever. Unbelievable fielder, batter...it's just that his feats are eclipsed by Yankee Mystique, by things like Jeter diving into the stands.

I've started writing something about it, because well that's what I do at work when I get fired up and have no pharmaceutical copywriting to do. I'll print it when I'm finished, ideally later tonight, but it's getting late, and my ability to wake up has just disappeared. I bought another alarm clock today, so now my alarm clock count is up to 4. You can imagine the madness that ensues in my bedroom in the morning, with 4 different buzzers going off at staggering times.

Oh also, if one more Red Sox fan pushes this "buy your team" crap on me, I'm going to implode. Or else finally break out the big guns aka hard fast logic and tell them to fuck off because BOSTON HAD THE HIGHEST WORLD SERIES PAYROLL IN THE HISTORY OF THE SPORT.

Get up and throw baseballs at people?

2005-04-12T09:30:00.000-07:00

MO is the coolest guy in the universe. Hands down. I'm going to go ahead and say I'd pay upwards of $10,000 to see Mo if he had, in fact, "gotten up and thrown baseballs at people." I'm laughing maniacally just picturing this. Boston gives him a standing O. He tips his hat, reaches into a messenger bag he has with him, and starts throwing his cutters at Red Sox Nation's heads. And then there's Posada yelling things off to the side like, "Mo! Over there! That guy's tring to get away!" And after he runs out of balls, the whole stadium is quiet. No one knows what to do, so everyone, including the umps, just stare. And Mo says, "What? I'm only human. I'm not a machine."
Enter Sandman comes on, drowing out the befuddled tears of Fenway park, everyone too moved by Mo's emotional outpouring to do anything else.

Ahh one can only dream...

BOSTON -- It was just a few minutes after the World Series championship banner had been raised in center field, but the Red Sox fans were ready to welcome the Yankees to Fenway Park.
One by one, the Bronx Bombers were introduced to the sellout crowd, and one by one, each player with "New York" across his chest was being booed.

Jaret Wright? Boo. Randy Johnson? Boooo. Heck, even Andy Phillips got booed.

Then came the most bizarre moment of the day. Mariano Rivera's name was called, and as the closer stepped out of the dugout, the crowd broke into a standing ovation.

Rivera, who blew two saves against the Red Sox in last October's ALCS, then blew two more last week at Yankee Stadium, laughed at the applause, tipping his hat to the crowd.

"It surprised me. I didn't know they loved me so much here," said a grinning Rivera. "It was nice. I enjoyed it. I had to laugh."

"I thought he was a good sport about it," said manager Joe Torre, the only other Yankee to receive some applause. "We all know Mariano. He understands this game. When you do well and they jeer you, you handle that. When they mockingly cheer you, you handle that. When people take time to recognize you, it's a credit to who you are and what you are."

Rivera has had an aura of invincibility for most of his brilliant career, but there have been questions raised over the past week whether he has lost something off of his trademark cutter, or whether the Red Sox are simply in his head.

Whatever the problem may or may not be, the right-hander has clearly struggled against the Sox more than any other opponent, suffering nine of his 23 regular-season blown saves since 2001 against Boston.

"That was classic," said Alex Rodriguez, who received the loudest boos of any Yankees player. "I never thought I'd see the people of Boston cheering for Mariano Rivera. That was a first -- and hopefully it will be the last time."

"You probably won't hear that too much anymore," said Derek Jeter. "It was funny. He enjoyed it."

Some players may not have taken the "cheers" quite as well as Rivera did, but the laid-back Panamanian simply took it in stride.

"I felt honored," Rivera said. "What was I going to do? Get upset and start throwing baseballs at people? You just roll with it."

Broken new year's resolution

2005-04-11T20:41:00.000-07:00

So my new year's resolution was to have no bad days ever, and I broke it today. Roar. I had to go in work late because my sinus infection is trying to kill me. And then my beloved YankTank couldn't even get more than one run on the board.

While I should just cash in my chips and call it a night, I know I'm going to stay up late AGAIN and drag through work all day tomorrow. The problem with baseball season is that when games aren't on, I feel like I'm just killing time. Tomorrow? Will be just a day to get through until the Yankees play again on Wednesday. There's this Radiohead line:

I'm not living
I'm just killing time
Your tiny hands
Your crazy kitten smile

Just, don't leave
Don't leave

From a song, "True Love Waits." Signs I know it's time to get a life: when love songs make me think of baseball games. Ah who needs a boyfriend when I already have 162 dates lined up. I have a full dance card as it is.

Things I learned in Georgetown this weekend

2005-04-10T22:27:00.000-07:00

1.) I can cure a sinus infection by eating toothpaste, compulsively spinning a basketball on your finger, or chewing gum
2.) I will never in a million years out grow beirut
3.) I could never live in a city that wasn't NYC. I wasn't even in Boston and I got my hat ripped off my head every 2 seconds.

It feels SO GOOD to be BACK...-Eminem, "Square Dance"

2005-04-10T21:51:00.000-07:00

"Long is the way, and hard, that out of hell leads up to light." -Dante, on the baseball off-season

"What you have to remember is that a baseball isn't a week or a month, but a season. And a season is a long time." -Chuck Tanner

Last year on January 1, I ignored a garden-variety New Year's Eve hangover in favor of enjoying all-day college football, Bloody Mary's, and cheese fries with my then-boyfriend and company. He and his buddy started out ordering Irish Car Bombs. Right before downing this asinine drink I still can't get my head around, Ex says to Idiot Friend: "This drink is arguably the most important drink of the day. How this goes down dictates the rest of the afternoon. Maybe the rest of the year."

While I question my own judgment for dating someone who placed that much stock in a drink I still swear tastes like castor oil, I admittedly thought back on that day, as I evaluated the actual gravity of the first week of baseball season. Exactly how consequential are these beginning games?

I can wave them off as insignificant in the grander scheme of things, but I still almost passed out from excitement when the 4 train pulled up to Yankee Stadium last Sunday. And of course, everyone who's dangling off the bottom end of his Fantasy League is adopting "There's still 152 games left!" as their mantra. So how telling are these opening games really?

I may be attributing a little too much emotional dynamic to the sport, but here's how I see it. It's like dating someone who moves across the country, and you both agree you can "see other people" while you're apart. So you have your fun but your heart isn't in it as much, you're just in it for the action. But as soon as he or she is back in town, everything slips perfectly and seamlessly back into place. No arguing, no courtesy "catching up" conversations. Just the intense thrill to be back together again.

Football and basketball have been my winter flings, but all bets are off now that Baseball is back in town. (Literally, all bets are off. After a disastrous bracket culminating in a parlayed bet on Michigan, I'm tossing in the towel.) And I'm going to have to grudgingly agree with Ex on this one. The first week of baseball season is indeed the shot of whiskey in Guinness on New Year's Day. (There's a sentence I never thought I'd say.)

Despite what felt like artic weather on Opening Day, it was just inordinately refreshing to finally be around 55,000 baseball fans. The Yankees could have been playing the Devil Rays, and I would have been just as elated. But then again, I wouldn't have gotten a chance to revel in the smattering of loud Boston fans who snuck out of the stadium in the 8th inning, tails between unwelcome legs.

And I realized, nothing had changed in the last 5 months besides for the line-ups. I fell right back into the Bronx swing of things, heckling Boston fans, booing Wells, soaking up the ageless, unrelenting, and interminable Rivalry.

It was like no time had even elapsed.

The thing is, people don't change. We are who we are. Like Boomer told us after his warm reception in the Bronx, "it is what it is." Brilliant. He's just a big, dumb animal, folks. What makes baseball great, among other things, is that it's not like football. Every football game profoundly affects the season, and the outcome of the game isn't usually a great surprise. You're not going to see Titans toppling New England the same way you can watch the Blue Jays pummel the Sox.

It's a long season, and while we'll dine on our share of "upsets" and oddities, the fact remains that this first week of the 2005 season may very well be a microcosm of the grander scheme of things. That's why baseball lends itself so well to Life Metaphors, and that's why I can't bring myself to sell out to the "they're just regular season games" mentality.

Consider what's happened in the last week, not as isolated games and incidents, but in the context of what we already know about baseball. It's like Hannibal Lector said, "Everything you need to know is in [the first week of the season], Clarice."

Take the Mets. I'm choosing my words carefully here, but did anyone really think Pedro and Beltran would turn them around? It's not like Roy Hobbs rolled up to their dugout.

I mean, I love the Mets, and when they're not playing the Yankees, I'm all about the Amazins. But if we've learned anything from playoff history, it's that the top teams have their 8th hitter batting .260, or have a fierce pitching trifecta, or drag midgets to their games. Unless Pedro and whatever that dwarf's name is reconcile, the Mets just don't have enough bench depth to pull this one off.

(As my sister said to her Mets-cheering boyfriend, "Well, at least they're getting all the New York sports news coverage! There's no such thing as bad press, right?")

The Mets hapless start isn't the only thing setting the stage for 2005. Yeah, we all knew the Yanks-Sox match-up this past week was going to be electric, and I wanted so badly to just treat it as my metaphorical reunion with a long-distance boyfriend, and ignore that the first game was against the defending champs. It was like finally recovering from mono, so your friends take you out to celebrate the fact you can drink again after 3 months, and they immediately start making you pound Jager shots.

Shouldn't I be weening into things like this? Like, start me out with a little Yankees-Anaheim series? And then cruise into the Boston games? Good God, I'm sober for 5 long months, and then you start the baseball season with the equivalent of mainlining tequila.

That series meant more than longtime rivals meeting with roles reversed for the first time in 86 years. It meant, in the Big Picture, that nothing's changed. Not in Yankee Stadium, not in Shea, Fenway, or even outside any of these sacred walls, where politics still rear their thorny head.

It's all here, all of baseball returned in full force:

--Someone gets nailed by the new steroid policy before the gavel even fell in court. (What did Alex Sanchez do, run home and think "I'll hide the evidence...in my bloodstream!"? He's That Guy in high school who gets caught smoking on the field trip right after the long speech the teacher gave at the head of the bus about how the "students' behavior is a reflection on the school.")

--Bonds, even on the injured list, still inspires disgust among the media and whirlwind gossip about the eventual future of his stats.

--Rivera blows two saves, and already people are shrieking about his decline. I don't get it. Boston blows seasons for 86 years, and Rivera loses 2 regular season games, and all of sudden, he's Josh Beckett? But there it is, the return of Rampant Dismissals of Legendary Talent. Boston continues to be Mo's kryptonite, and no time was wasted re-establishing this sad truth.

One week of baseball, and the only thing different from last year is the presence of "1918" chants.

It's been a long winter for the baseball fan, and now here's our payoff. Game upon game upon game, 30 teams thriving on constant kinetic energy, sports sections packed with box scores, daily roster changes to my fantasy team. Never a dull moment. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

It's easy to dismiss regular season games as inconsequential, but they're not. Every game, every pitch, every walk...they mean more than just fantasy points. They're my bread and butter. It's a long season, and thankfully so, because every game is a palatable reaffirmation of the subtle and not-so-subtle accessories that define both the sport and its infinitely great texture.

Shaking in our non-bloody socks

2005-04-10T21:00:00.000-07:00

Schilling says he's ready to face Yankees

Associated Press
Associated Press
Mar. 7, 2005 05:06 PM

INDIANAPOLIS - Curt Schilling gave up seven runs in six innings in a rehabilitation start for Boston's Triple-A Pawtucket farm team Thursday, then said he's ready to start for the Red Sox next week against the New York Yankees at Fenway Park.

"I felt great," he said. "Going into today, I wanted to get mentally ready. I stretched it out. No fatigue. I felt strong. I'm going to go out and compete against the Yankees on Wednesday. I'll be ready."

The World Series MVP, recovering from offseason ankle surgery, allowed 11 hits, including two solo homers, a triple and a double. He struck out six and walked none, throwing 77 of 104 pitches for strikes in a 7-5 loss to the Indianapolis Indians.

***

Talk about intimidation factor! I think having Vasquez pitch against us would inspire more fear. This is like getting a 820 on a practice SAT the night before and then exhaling and saying, Ok, this is good, this is good. I'm totally prepared for tomorrow morning.

Not enough Bosox fans at casting call?

2005-04-08T10:28:00.000-07:00

From a Fever Pitch press release:

Fallon, who grew up a Yankees fan and idolized players like Bucky Dent and Don Mattingly, immersed himself into the culture of Red Sox Nation. "They are great fans, probably the best fans in all of sports," said Fallon, who actually based his character on one of his former producers at "Saturday Night Live" who would come to work wearing a beat up, old Red Sox cap.

I don’t know what’s more pathetic: that a “Yankee fan” could agree to play this role, or that “wearing a beat up old Red Sox cap” to work constitutes being “the best fans in all of sports.”

When the Sox falter this year, I will liquidate my life possessions to fund a movie documenting the life of the Boston fan who realizes now that he has a WS title, he has to just settle into the life of the normal baseball fan.

And accept that one ring does not a dynasty make. I don't care about that whole 26-6 record. And to be honest, I don't really care about last season anymore. It sucked, but Boston admittedly did something unfathomable and amazing, which-as a fan of the sport-I think is pretty ridiculous.

And yes, they deserve time to gloat after all this time. But it's one year. Congratulations on finally winning a WS, but stop acting like Randy Moss in the end zone. Act like you've been there before.

More tired than a one legged man in an ass-kicking contest

2005-04-07T03:32:00.000-07:00

Too late to be up. I'm not in college, I can't get away with this crap anymore. I'm in the process of writing yet another strongly worded piece on Mo and his fictious "collapse." Back off. It's not like he let up a pennant-winning homerun. I THINK, not sure though, that Boston pitchers have done that. Maybe. Once or twice. Not sure.
I'm headed to DC tomorrow to see my sis. I wish my other little sis could hang out more. I can't wait til she turns 21 so she can come out. She's gotten to be, pardon my french, essentially a badass. And it doesnt hurt that now BOTH of my sisters are big baseball fans. Seriously, who has it better than me?
So I'm off to Georgetown, where I can relive my college days of playing beirut and...well that's about it. Yeah every memory from my college career is punctuated by who I was playing beirut against. Now that I'm out of school, it's who the Yankees played against. I need a hobby. Seriously.
I'm in a tournament next weekend, but it's co-ed. I'll get some practice this weekend playing with my sister, although I think the younger sister may be better. I said beirut talent skips a generation obviously, to which she astutely pointed out, the gap between oldest and youngest sister isn't a generation.
Yeah there's my college education paying off big time. Good times.
In other news, I went out tonight and paid for ZERO drinks. You know why?
Me: "Vodka tonic."
Bartender: "On the house. Any girl who comes in wearing a yankee jacket isn't paying for her drinks."
God I love baseball.

BAND TOGETHER WITH ME!!

2005-04-06T23:06:00.000-07:00

I hate the Sports Guy. We're over. For real this time. This is the equivalent of a guy and girl in college breaking up and getting back together again over and over ad nauseum infinitum, and then one day, finally, the guy crosses the line and cheats on her with her best friend. And she firmly and resolutely ends it.

I think this will explain things:

Secret Yankee Closer Election Set for April 8
Extensive Security Planned for Friday's Funeral
By BILL SIMMONS

THE BRONX (April 6) -- Major League Baseball on Wednesday set April 8 as the date for the historic start of the conclave to elect a successor to Mariano Rivera, as the Yankees made final arrangements for the funeral of a great career that is expected to draw millions of Yankee fans and world leaders to the Bronx.

The decision came after the future Hall of Famer blew his second save in as many days against the team's biggest rival, the World Champion Red Sox, giving up five runs in the ninth, getting battered like a rented mule and ignominiously getting removed from the game in the middle of the inning, the fourth consecutive time he has blown a save to the Red Sox dating back to the 2004 ALCS. Fans at Yankee Stadium even booed the great closer on his way back to the dugout, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that Yankee fans are headed to hell.

Yankees GM Brian Cashman said the Yankees would be sequestered in the team offices in the early afternoon to start the decision process for the next closer. Candidates include Oakland's Octavio Dotel, Detroit's Ugueth Urbina, current set-up man Flash Gordon, Rick Ankiel and Charlie Sheen. The Yankees will continue to use Rivera from the bullpen, but only in blowouts and games where the lead or deficit is six runs or more.

If none of the candidates gets the required two-thirds majority after about 12 days, the Yankee braintrust may change procedure and elect the closer by simple majority. The date was set on the third hour of preparatory meetings of Yankee front office people who have converged on the Bronx ahead of Friday's funeral and burial of Rivera's career.

Fans continued to flock to Yankee Stadium after Wednesday's game, jamming up streets as they waited to pay their final respects to Rivera, who has been lying in state of shock since the Red Sox hammered him off the field for the second straight day. More than 200,000 Yankee fans will have filed solemnly by the pinstriped body by the end of Wednesday night, at a rate of about 15,000-18,000 people an hour in a nearly around-the-clock procession, according to calculations by the Yankee front office.

To which, I responded with a strongly worded email that I can safely say he will never print, but I wanted him to know he lost a loyal reader:

You probably get hate mail a lot. This isn't that. Consider this the equivalent of screwing up so badly that your parents don't yell or scream, but quietly and deliberately affirm, "You've really disappointed us."

I've always found you annoying and repetitive and schtick-y. But I respected your humor and overwhelming sports knowledge and as such read you every day.

Now? I lost all respect for your column and possibly you when you wrote that "obit" for Rivera.

Boston blows seasons for 86 years, Rivera blows 2 regular season games, and all of sudden he warrants this kind of abrupt dismissal of his unparalleled talent? You're pathetic, Simmons. I could understand if you were having a field day with an A-Rod error, but Mariano Rivera is one of the classiest guys in the game. So what does that make you, an increasingly unpopular writer even among his own fans, for declaring Mo "dead"?

I guess you have to find an angle somehow when your team blows the opening games. Nicely done, attacking a legend. You're a real class act, good follow up to referencing the late Pope in your intern contest column.
Mo's career is no where near dead, but my already waning interest in EVER reading your column again is.

Seriously. This last time I was this angry was when my ex-boyfriend met up with a date next to my building and then said, "You don't own the east side!" when I told him he could have picked her up somewhere not 10 feet away from me.

(This is a legitimate reason to get mad. Back off.)

Thuhhhh

2005-04-05T17:24:00.000-07:00

..wait for it...
Just kidding, I'm not going anywhere with that. Too predictable. Kind of like I could have predicted that every single Boston fan was going to act like the Yankees winning was a "given," not unlike Ringleader Himself:

1. My editor Philbrick summed it up best this morning: "Congratulations to the Yankees for winning Game 8." That could have been the most ironclad lock in gambling history. I have April 6 in the Page 2 Office Pool for "When will the Boston writers and radio stations start playing the 'These guys were a little too pleased with themselves about last season and it's starting to show' card."

Maybe they're psychic! Boston fans need to pick a philosphy/mentality and go with it. When they lose, they expected it. when they win, it's because they knew it would happen because they "always believed." I can't tell you enough how much this annoys me.

I was just telling my coworker that a quadrapalegic (sp?) has a better chance of marrying me than a Boston fan. (Not that people arre exactly lining up at the door. I just meant that I can't fathom the logistics of a Boston/Yankee fan relationship.) Like seriously, what would you talk about at dinner? Politics and religion and other non-controversial topics? I can't imagine this at all. And my coworker says, What if he was a "nice" Boston fan?

But see the thing is, when I go out to bars, the breakdown is:

50% say to me "Go Yankees"
15% say, "Yankees suck"
35% say, "Hey who won the World Series last year/you're wearing the international choke symbol/yeah boston!"

(And this is because my hat is always on, NYC folks aren't clairvoyant like Boston fans--ohh rimshot!)

That said, the point is, if I met a Boston fan that was like, "Hey a baseball fan! Great! So how about this rivalry huh? CRAZY! But fun!" I would check to see if he had all his chromosomes, (yeah you can check these things), and then MAYBE if they were all there, then we could talk.

But to be honest, I'm reminded of a certain scene from Chasing Amy, in which I'll now adapt to fit my particular situation:

There's a 4 way intersection with a $100 bill lying in the cross section. At the end of one road is Santa Claus, one road has the Easter bunny, one road has nice, pleasant, non-confrontational, good sport Boston fan, and one road has bitter, obnoxious, hater, whiny, newly arrogant Boston fan. All four run to the cross section to get the $100 bill. Now: who gets there first?

Answer: The bitter, obnoxious, hater, whiny, newly arrogant Boston fan.

You know why?

BECAUSE THE OTHER THREE ARE FIGMENTS OF YOUR FUCKING IMAGINATION.

...

2005-04-05T07:35:00.000-07:00

Posted by: scoutcheckmate.

My birthday!

2005-04-05T07:33:00.000-07:00

Posted by: scoutcheckmate

My birthday!
So here are a few pictures of me and my girls on my birthday party. I think one time I read that Princess Di always looked above the camera when people photographed her. That's the only logical explanation for why I never seem to be looking at the camera. Well, there are a few other explanations I guess, most of which involve Wild Turkey shots.

While I'm good & Hammered

2005-04-04T06:06:00.000-07:00

a few things:
1.) my gambling credibility remains questionable as not only am I zero for 2 with my bets, but i also made a big claim about michigan state. Dont ever listen to me again if youre thinking of betting. seriously.
2.) highlights of the night:
btw, it was my birthday party night.
-the ridiculous party my friends thew me
-the framed ad rebekah gave me of hungry hippos with red sox and yankees hats on them (this is true, not nonsensical ramblings of a drunk girl at 5am)
-the flowers my co-worker gave me
-my improved ability to interact with people while "mixing worlds" (must be a 24 year old acquired trait)
-the fact I may or may not have roped my opening day date. we'll see....
3.) lowlights:
I was left all alone!
Ah well. Always the wingman, never the wing.

Petals on a wet, black bough...

2005-04-02T14:39:00.000-08:00

I'm still trying to get my head around people who use those handless phone adapter things. So when they're walking down the street, they have these headphones in and a lot of times I can't see the headphones, so it looks like they're just talking to themselves. As if people in New York City didn't have enough weirdnesses, now they may or may not be talking to themselves. If there's a procedure to correct vision, I swear, soon there's going to be a procedure that attaches a chip in our inner ears so cell phones can be closer to us than ever.

Also, if I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times, if you can't drink til you're 21, and you can't drive til you're 16, you shouldn't be allowed out in public until you're 14. Little kids are insufferable.

I really want to wear sneakers tonight, but I have a feeling my friends are going to rape me if I don't dress up. They've come to accept the omnipresence of the hat, but I think I should compromise and wear boots tonight. Sigh.

The apparition of these faces in the crowd...

2005-04-02T13:37:00.000-08:00

I'm running on fumes. My birthday party is tonight. I'm dead. Hopefully I can redeem my gambling credibility. I have the over on the Louisville/Illinois game and I'm taking Louisville's 3 point line. And I'm not saying anything about the Michigan/UNC game, but you can read all about my thoughts on the matter here.

To be honest, I'm in a scrappy kind of mood today, and I know I shouldn't be since it's the weekend and my birthday and all. But opening day is tomorrow and it looks like it's aposed to rain. And if it's rescheduled for Monday afternoon, I won't be able to go because I can't take off work on Monday. I would if it was any other day, but my boss would kill me. I have a huge project due Monday, and I think taking off work would be my undoing. But if it's scheduled for later on in the year, I'm going to try to take off on Tuesday so I can see the make-shift opening day. I don't know, I'm feeling a little blue. One of stretch of days that it seems nothing falls into place. I lost my Metro-card. (I know I know I have it rough), and it's raining, and I'm fresh out of energy. The last one is probably the worst. It sucks not being able to function when I have shit to do. Like my espn magazine started coming in 2's, and I was getting charged for 2 subscriptions, and I was almost about to punch a wall I was so angry. But then I called customer service and they just extended my subscription for a year. Yeah that wasn't too hard.

And I got a package from my sister that REALLY needed to get here before tonight but UPS just left one of those "We Tried to Deliver" notes on my door, saying I needed to be around to sign for it. So now I have to go through the pain in the ass of rerouting the package so it gets delivered to my office address instead. Okay okay I know none of those things are bad in it of themselves, and I sound like a bitch complaining about it. But I'm still in a scrappy mood. Mostly because my little sister is really sick. So that's kind of making everything else seem a thousand times worse. And I was going to go to DC to be with her now but she's coming up to New York instead for the Yankee games.

I keep looking at the 3 dishes in my sink that need to be done.

I just joined a softball team. Something else to give me chills every time I think about it. Opening Day is finally here tomorrow. I've been waiting all winter for this. Every time the Yankees win a big game, I save the back page of the NY Post and hang it in my cubicle, so on Friday, I took down all my newspapers to make room for this season. That gave me chills too.

Seriously, I think I'm just hypothermic or something.

2005-04-01T10:01:00.000-08:00

Well, they printed my article. Who doesn't like spring training? Oh boy, on America's Next Top Model, there's this lesbo girl on it and as if being branded for the season as "The Lesbo" wasn't bad enough, she has a flesh-eating bacteria on her face. I'm going to go ahead and say that's probably the affliction you want if you're competing in a model contest. Do you think the producers put the strain of bacteria in her bed or something? Seriously, I wouldn't be surprised. I could see Tyra and Co. stealthily sneaking into lesbo's room with little eyedroppers and maybe one of the nice producers was like, "Um guys I don't feel right about this. She's already so butch to begin with." And then Tyra was like, "She needs to deal. A model needs to learn to get thicker skin." And then some Chandler-like cameraman says, "Well that's going to be hard when her skin is falling off! HAHAHAHAHA!" No one knows whether to laugh until they look at Tyra and she shakes her head indicating this is over her head, and hence not funny.
Yeah I'm pretty sure that happened.
So I auditioned for this bartending thing last night. It felt like my freshman year of college when I took a sorority bid and got hazed. They had like 50 people show up for this "Open Call" and then everyone got a number, and they'd call 3 numbers. Those 3 had to get behind the bar and wait on the bar's staff while they barked drink orders at you. They were "seeing how you could handle stress while interacting with customers." Sweet Christ. I also had NO idea how to make any drinks, and I wasn't about to compensate by jumping up and dancing on the bar. (Yeah, of course there were dirty stayouts resorting to this tactic.) They asked for like a Red headed slut shot, and I think I improvised by making shots with kahlua, raspberry stoli, coke, ameretto, and vanilla stoli. It tasted like ass. Surprisingly.
But afterwards one of the owners or managers or whatever came up and was like, "Youre in." The manager, by the way, looks like he's 9 years old. He's adorable but seriously. Dude looks like he just popped out of the womb yesterday and used cocktail shakers for baby toys because he handles liquor bottles like Chris Paul moves around the court.
My birthday party is manana! WOOHOO!!! I watched field of dreams when I got back home from the bar. I have a million questions about that movie. I think these were the result of being hammered, but I was still perplexed by the fact that when shoeless joe wants Ray to pitch, why Ray says, "We don't have a catcher." Yeah, that's what I would do if the apparition of a baseball legend wanted to have batting practice in my back yard. Rules are rules, you know? I'm not pitching to ANYONE if there's no catcher. And why did Ray's wife have so little beef with her husband making the field? If my husband and I were eating dinner and between chewing on his lamb chops he said, "By the way, I'm thinking of building a stadium in the farm so we can accomodate some of these ghosts that I've been chatting with lately," I would have more of a reaction that "Okay!" Actually, who am I kidding, I would probably ask if there was a catcher first.

Have no computer, will get into work too early

2005-03-31T08:02:00.000-08:00

I'm in the office before 8 because I need to do all my writing HERE since my computer is gone. Blech. This is more frustrating than trying to open a new CD or DVD. What the hell did I do before my ibook came into the picture? I tried to handwriting stories last night and I was getting no where fast. Half because the cat kept pouncing on my pen. Half because I couldn't read my own handwriting. Sometimes when I'm watching movies and I see people locked in closets, or running late to meet the love of their lives who's about to board a plane, the first thing I think of is, "Why don't those asshats just use their cell phone?" It was a simpler time. 4 more days til opening day. I still don't know what the hell to do with the other ticket. Maybe put it in a chocolate bar and sit back and watch people clamoring to buy chocolate and then just smile wickedly. Like LardAss did in Stand by Me during the Pie Eating Contest.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

2005-03-29T08:56:00.000-08:00

YESSS BIRTHDAY CITY!!! Except it started out mediocre, but things are looking up, for sure. My ex-boyfriend left peanut butter sandwiches at my door last night, so at least I have a nice lunch to look forward to. Yep, it doesnt take much to make me happy.

BACK HOME!

2005-03-28T19:27:00.000-08:00

I'm back in the city. And it's like having a giant cheese pizza in front of me while I'm laced up in a Hannibal Lector straight jacket. Meaning, I finally can post all my Spring Training adventures, but the Catch 22 is that MY LAPTOP'S BATTERY IS DEAD. No, I can't just charge it because the charger is broken. And I'm scared to take it down the Apple Store in Soho because I have a feeling that since it is in "trendy Soho" that I will have to pay a cover charge to get in, and I might not even be allowed in at all because I'm wearing sneakers or something. Blech. So right now I'm at work even though I finished real work hours ago, because I am without internet connection/word processor at home. But suffice to say that once I have the means, spring training memories will be immortalized on here.

That pizza reference made me hungry, I'm leaving. Stories to come soon. You know what else is soon? MY BIRTHDAY WHICH IS TOMORROW. BIG 24. That's right, thats what I said.

Who am I even talking to here? I'm just going to leave myself with the illusion that I have an audience...

Here's what I got on spring training so far:

"Nothing will ever be as much fun as baseball."--Mickey Mantle

Truer words were never spoken. When faced with having to use up 5 vacation days before the end of March, it was pretty clear what I needed to do. I could either go to Rio with my girlfriends or Tampa alone. (Or stay home and watch daytime television and capitalize on the fact you can have McDonald's delivered in NYC.) I received more than a few weird looks when I told everyone at work I was taking off for Spring Training by myself. Or as my boss said, "The Yankees are going to sic a restraining order on you soon."

Why did I venture to Legends Field solo? Because no one else I know would want to arrive at the stadium 4 hours before it started just to watch Yogi Berra drive around in a golf cart. Or would want to sit in the stadium long after the game was over just listening to "New York, New York" play on a loop. Or would recognize that the beauty of Spring Training is not the games themselves, but what they represent. They're not just a pre-party for the impending best months of the year. I wasn't just taking a vacation from TPS reports. I was taking a vacation from steroids, exhausted media-coverage of certain rivalries, running tallies of payrolls, and watching once-awe-inspiring players become shells of their former selves.

I'm not jaded. In the words of San Francisco OF, "I'm just tired." But last week I took a hiatus from all those controversial tumors that compromise the game. Spring Training is the game at its purest form. No mind-numbing congressional hearings, no arguments with my friends over fantasy trades. And even more amazing--no hostile fans (not many, anyway) taunting their rival fans.

The fact of the matter is, I could be fighting a bad case of shingles, be soaking wet from a relentless monsoon, and be sitting next to the token drunk guy with sweaty chest hair puffing out of his wife beater, and I'd still be wearing that dumb-founded, sh*t-eating, Manny Ramirez-esque grin. And spring training? Good God, it's like throwing a dirty-stayout into a Viagra convention. (Insert your own "things are looking up" pun here.) Basically, spring training takes the game, extrapolates everything sublimely perfect about it, magnifies this by a million, and then makes it all accessible to me.

It's easy to forget why baseball has been dubbed the Great American Pasttime, but an exhibition game is baseball in a vacuum. The sport stripped of its political complications and peppered with endearing B-side stories. Spring Training is The Breakfast Club: all these different walks of life ignore that everything will go back to "normal" come opening day, and they just seem to enjoy themselves. And like The Breakfast Club, it makes for great viewing pleasure that doesn't require too much thinking.

In broader terms, it simply defies conventional odds. And I can't figure out why this is. It's like how tourists come to New York City and witness cupcake shops being held up by armed men wearing lampshades and diapers. Which prompts the ever-popular, ultimately hackneyed expression: "Only in New York, only in New York."

Likewise, Spring Training is the Big Apple of Major League Baseball. Only in Spring Training will you see the most intimidating pitcher in the game throw a fastball that's interrupted by a bird on an obvious suicide mission. When else are you going to see a game called on the basis of a "Bee Delay"? Apparently one of the player's "Coconut Oil Conditioner" attracted a swarm of bees to the field. Imagine living that one down in the locker room.

Even the subtler spring training windfalls are worth appreciating. Like the 12-2 homerun-ridden game I saw on Thursday when the Yanks used Atlanta for batting practice. Or just seeing future Hall-of-Famers enjoying a nice steak dinner out. (This may not seem monumental, but I swear, it's like seeing your teacher out on a date or something. You just don't expect them to exist outside the capacity of how you know them.)

Only in Spring Training, only in Spring Training.

Other highlights of my personal Utopia In Which Normal Social Boundaries Dissolve:

Most Damning Proof Red Sox and Yankees Fans Can Make Nice: I arrived at my hotel at 10am. When I learned the room wouldn't be ready for 3 hours, I asked the receptionist to point me to the bar. I ordered a vodka tonic, and without batting an eye, the bartender asks, "One shot or two?" I realize this is good people right here, and after talking for a little, I discover it's a Boston fan making my drinks strong enough to kill a brontosaurus. (Maybe that was his intention...?) Over "Sizzling Chicken Fajitas" and a potpourri of mixed drinks, much pleasant conversation is exchanged ("I can't believe we actually won!" "I gotta hand it to you, unbelievable 8-0 sweep...). The bill? About $20 less than it should have been. Boston Bartender says, "Those last few drinks were for Game 7 this year."

Closest I Got To the Upper End of the Baseball Caste System: Mr. Steinbrenner himself was sitting about 4 rows behind me in his outdoor luxury suite. After the game, I walked up to the wall separating the bourgeoisie from the commoners and handed him my baseball to sign. Then I handed him a blown up picture of my bathroom (a mural of Yankee Stadium) on which I had written: "When can I paint over the 26 with a 27?" Well, I handed it to his bodyguard-type person anyway. Apparently, you couldn't hand anything to the Boss directly. (What is this, a blackjack table?)

Most Admirable Move By A Different Generation: I was enjoying a delightful chocolate chip ice cream cone outside the International Plaza while reading my Fantasy 2005 Reports Magazine. (Who has it better than me?) Then a braces-toting boy who couldn't have been any older than 17 approached me and said, `Would you like to join me and my friends for dinner? We saw you sitting alone and thought you might want to eat with us." I was floored. So I celebrated the "Anything Goes" Spring Training Philosophy and had a drink with three boys who can't get into R-rated movies. And by "drink," I mean ice tea.

Overall Best Highlight: Fans clamored around the fences when Mariano Rivera walked by, and I knew there was no way I could compete with little kids playing their Cute Toddler Card. So I yelled, "Mariano, I named my cat after you!" And alas, he looked up, smiled, walked over, and signed my ball. He's such a good guy. And he has this perfect signature that looks like it should only be made with feather pens, and on old leather books from the 1800's.

Good times. So now I'm back in New York, trying to still my beating heart in anticipation of opening day. I'm back in the land where Mets fans stop me in bars to inform me the Yankees suck, where Carl Pavano's $3 million new apartment in midtown is big news, and where "How do you think Pedro will do this year?" is heard more than "I had the WORST cab ride over here..."

Home sweet home. While I loved every second of my time basking in warm weather and Baseball Purity, it's good to be back. I'm a subway ride away from the stadium and mere days away from opening day.

Let's the games begin.

Spring Training!!!

2005-03-21T16:27:00.000-08:00

So I'm leaving for Tampa in a few hours. My order of favorite things: Baseball, Yankees, Food, Drinking during the day, the beach. And tampa basically has all of them.Except I have a feeling I won't be able to capitalize on some of them since it's supposed to rain for the first two days that I'm there. It's going to be enough of a challenge finding things to do to entertain myself when it's nice out, it's going to be balancing-chemical-equations challenging to find things to do when it's crappy out. Luckily, I find myself very amusing, and things like rollerblading or spinning a basketball on my finger can provide endless entertainment for me.

I have a few agendas while I'm there that go beyond baseball games. One is meeting a Yankee up close and personal. The other is slipping Steinbrenner a photo of my bathroom when I see him at IHOP. Yeah, I'm going to just stake out the breakfast bar until he shows up, and then I'm going to have his waitress deliver a picture of my bathroom. See, this is the type of networking I can excel at. But as soon as I have to "talk shop" and drop email addresses and client names--I'm as lost and confused as I am in a meatpacking district club.

So I'll be gone, for those of you (if any) that actually read this. But given the weather forecast, I feel like I will be writing up a storm (HAHAHAHAHA!! Look at me amusing myself already!) in my cozy hotel room. (The name of which will not be disclosed, since I don't want the paparazzi stalking me AGAIN.)

So I'll be getting my first fill of baseball after a long winter of hibernation and starvation. Scorpions can live a whole year without food. But I doubt that they, or any other living thing, can survive that long without baseball. It's all a warm up for opening day. And that's another thing on my agenda--screen applicants for the job of going with me to opening day. I NEVEER go to games with other people, very infrequently anyway, because apparently I get a little too emotionally involved. One time this manifested itself in skipping up and down the aisles of Yankee Stadium with a roll of duct tape, threatening to tape Boston fans' mouths. I didn't though. I wasn't really going to, either. But I had to act like there was a roll of duct tape in my purse for a reason, or else I would be a girl who carries duct tape in her bag, and who wants that?

No one wants to be around someone who gets beligerantly drunk when the yanks are up, and who gets violently depressed when they're down. So I get to live in my own little bubble of fanatic lunacy. Good times.

More MO

2005-03-20T22:15:00.000-08:00

The many faces of Mariano Rivera

2005-03-20T22:13:00.000-08:00

The many faces of Mariano Rivera
Posted by: scoutcheckmate.

My cat is home for the week (my parents' place). I miss him already. I hope the cats at my parents' house (tubbo.com I and tubbo.com II) don't kill him. It makes sense. No one pays attention to Tubbo.com I and II, they can't run very fast anymore because they're 9 years old, and they're just overall not as interesting. MO, on the other hand, is not even a year old. So everyone loves him, and he's cute, and fun to watch. Especially fun to watch when he's beating up the Fat Cats.

This is just a microcosm of how people view the Yankees. I gave my parents explicit instructions on to watch him. He likes the songs Enter Sandman (seriously) and the theme song from Top Gun. But I have a feeling my parents are just going to try to keep MO alive for 4 days. They're all about tough love. I wish I could take him to spring training with me. MO got all sorts of pissed when I told him he wasn't coming. I think he was getting into bathing suit shape, because I noticed he wasn't eating a lot, and he was also running around and getting more exercise than usual. So I had to sit him down and tell him it wasn't happening and that I was flying down solo.

It was very awkward.

Field of Dreams

2005-03-17T08:30:00.000-08:00

Field of Dreams
Posted by: scoutcheckmate.

This is my bathroom. After the Yankees beat the Twins to win the AL East, I painted it. It was one of those night when it was perfect outside and I was so happy I was almost frustrated that my body was working as a physical constraint. Like I was practically glowing, and nothing I could do did justice to how I was feeling. It wasn't like they won the World Series or anything, but it was like hearing the proverbial "perfect song"--the right song randomly comes on at the right moment and everything for a second is still and flawless. That's how I felt when New York, New York came on that night and everything was right at Yankee Stadium.

Plus it's like I always say, there's nothing better than stepping out of the shower in the morning and being able to say, "I'm clean, naked, and standing outside Yankee Stadium." Such a great way to start the morning off on the right foot. And since my alarm clock is set to play the Yankee at bat songs, I get to wake up to Enter Sandman. It's like I'm being called from the bullpen that is my bed.
Who has it better than me?

A hop, skip, and jump over Jaws

2005-03-16T19:35:00.000-08:00

"Originally posted here..."

I honestly thought that movie "Closer" was going to be about Gagne. And after 10 years of watching Bev 9er, what I remember most is that Dylan McKay's dad used "Eddie Waitkus" as his witness protection program alias. Along the same lines, the most recent episode of Arrested Development also thematically translated into a sports-related concern.

This latest synaptic misfire stemmed from the scene when Henry Winkler literally jumped over a shark, taking one small hop for mankind, one giant leap for entertainment parody. My first thought? That riding Winkler piggyback during the allegorical shark jumping is the 2004 sports season.

And I don't mean that the level of athletic talent has hit a brick wall. That's only one of the two ways sports can jump the shark, e.g.:

1.) Steve Carlton Style: to peak, do something ridiculous, and then tailspin into Bolivia. Word Origin: From 1965-1986, Carlton won over 300 games, with six 20-win seasons. And then he did a tour de clubhouses, playing on 4 different teams in the span of a little over a year, finishing with an 11-12 record.

And the other...

2.) O.C. Style: 1. of or relating to a short period of time saturated with an overwhelming blitz of Page 6-worthy idiocy and/or outlandish feats, 2. a Murderer's Row of "You'll Always Remember Where You Were When You Saw..." antics, 3. the 2004 Year in Review

The way I see it, 2004 was a watershed year for spelling out exactly how much the face of professional sports has changed over history. Change the MLB Fox theme song to "California" and throw Mischa Barton in a Pacers jersey, and we're watching Thursday night must-see T.V. So where does that leave the baffled fan? Is it possible for Modern Sports and Idealistic Sports to coexist? Or has the game as we know it, in fact, jumped the shark?

I'd be lying if I said I was a fan of the "jump the shark" expression. For the laymen, "jump the shark" is a phrase coined to describe the sharp decline of the show Happy Days that followed an episode where Fonzie flew over a shark tank in water skis. Ok, so Happy Days' peak was when a character flew over a pool of fish? Compared to what "jump the shark" means now, it appears Happy Days got cheated. The expression's meaning has inflated more than Sprewell's market value. If you want to jump the shark now, you're going to have to do a lot better than water ski stunts. Unless you cram death, homosexuality, pregnancy, rape, mental instability, and drug addiction into one season, then you haven't even cleared the fin. But 2004? Perfect landing on other side of shark tank. Gave new meaning to the phrase "spectator sports." And an investigation into the possibility that 2004 Sports corked its water skis is currently underway.

See, the changes are more than just rising hot dog prices at Wrigley and computer-generated first down lines. We live in an era where homeruns are pegged with asteriks, and women strip down on broadcasted NFL games. A headline reading "The Shot Heard Round the World" doesn't mean a pennant-winning homerun anymore. It means someone interrupted Artest's mid-brawl nap. Before I start sounding like an 83-year-old with a trick knee, reminiscing about the days when baseball was played with rocks and sticks, realize nothing can shake my love of the game. But it's like having a birthday that falls on Christmas: even though you can enjoy both sides of the same day, the simple pleasures of a birthday are eclipsed by the glitz and glamour of Christmas.

On the one hand, I'm in the middle of a sports writer's wet dream--between the steroids uproar, March Madness, and impending baseball season, I have the mosquito-at-a-nudist-beach syndrome: so much great stuff to sink my teeth into, but I just don't know where to begin. And how do I divide my time between everything? You know it's a good day when the biggest problem you face is whether to read about Spring Training or Final Four predictions.

On the other hand, I'm afraid sports just surpassed Carl Lewis's long jump record. Where do we go from here? Just to take you back, consider the absurdities that occurred in the last year:

NFL: Janet Jackson sets the stage for the "Twilight Zone meets SportsCenter" marathon, (and ironically, the NFL may have been overall the most tame); Desperate Housewife meets Desperate TV Ratings; Ricky Williams retires to live in a tent for $7 a day

NHL: It died.

NBA: Sprewell's brush with poverty; Kobe renounces role as Poster Boy for Wholesome Athletes; plastic cup becomes world's most expensive game souvenir, one buck shy of a cool billion on ebay; the Christies reconcile sports with MTV reality shows (coming soon...)

MLB: Canseco assumes role of Steroids Nation Spokesman; "Juiced" proves ghostwriters are without shame and grossly underpaid; Bonds continues to be a caricature of a superhuman beast; Red Sox fans realize it was something else that was missing from their lives all this time; and most recently--Mariano Rivera allegedly joins the NHL status. (Seriously, how does a rumor like that get started? I'm imagining these tired, sunburned reporters grabbing a beer at Spring Training:)

"Giambi admit to steroids yet?"

"Nah."

"Jeter nail Jessica Simpson yet?"

"Nope."

"What about A-Rod? There's got to be something there. Wait, what time did he wake up today?"

"Nada. But I heard Mo's elbow is sore."

"And by sore elbow...you mean dead?"

Every new nugget of sports info trumps the one before it. At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if the Chargers signed Avril Lavigne as their new starting defensive end. What kind of future is the world of sports looking at? Half the reason I love sports is because it's supposed to be free of all this drama that recent college grads like myself are already flypaper for.

But the upside is that if sports have indeed jumped the shark, maybe we can look forward to some degree of normalcy in subsequent years. How can anything possibly outdo 2004? There's really just nowhere else to go. For the next 10 years anyway. According to Back to the Future II, the Cubs sweep Miami in the 2015 World Series.

Yeah, so Miami's a non-existent team. At the way things are going, I still really wouldn't be surprised.

One more thing: according to my brackets, I have Utah cutting down the nets in St. Louis. This would seem strange/moronic to me if I hadn't just watched West Virginia score 111 points to beat Wake in double OT.

A Case For the Yankees

2005-03-11T12:30:00.000-08:00

Originally posted here..."

I may or may not be the same person who fiercely argued that Bill Simmons and the Intern were the same person. And I may have also adamantly contended that the Ken Jennings fiasco was a scam ABC pulled to get their ratings up. And lastly, there’s a possibility I wrote a college paper asserting that Lord of the Flies was really about materialism and society’s preoccupation with real estate and property. (Why else would they be always fighting over that damn conch shell?)

So I have admittedly made a few bad calls. And with that kind of track record, some could think it impossible for me to craft a convincing case for not hating the Yankees, especially since I am usually not slowed by logic. But the way I see it, I’m a pharmaceutical copywriter. I make a living writing letters to doctors convincing them to prescribe brand name drugs. If I can persuade people with years of med school under their belts, I can sure as hell sway the imbeciles who haven’t caught on that it’s perennially maddening to root against a team that wins more than they lose.

The Yankees are essentially The Godfather of baseball, while the Red Sox are like syndicated Sex and the City: an entourage of idiots with a shell of greatness and raw skill, but without the classic, timeless substance that positions the Yankees at the core of baseball’s spirit. I love the Yankees not just because I’m from New York, but because to me, they embody The Game. That said, realize that during the 2004 World Series, I didn’t root for the Cardinals, nor did I root against the Red Sox, despite having the latter team render me immobile and jaded for 3 weeks.

Put simply, if you love sports, you don’t support another team’s downfall.

Yes, if you love the Red Sox, you hope the Yankees contract polio and scabies, and in the words of the late Pedro, ”f---ing disappear.” This, right here, is why Yankee-haters can never claim to truly love sports. Because if they did, they’d celebrate talent and heart and baseball at its finest, whether that game is played by Boston, the Yankees, or any other team.

Consider the following:

• Exhbit A: The Godfather Theory- Michael has Fredo killed. Because there is only one thing more important to him than his family, and that is the bigger Family. There’s only one thing I love more than the Yankees, and that’s baseball. So a decision to hate the Yankees is effectively a betrayal of the bigger Game. Good luck ever making it in the Mafia. Fellow Fan, you’re my older brother and I love you, but don’t ever take sides with anyone against the family again…ever.

• Exhbit B: The 90210 Theory- This is for Mets fans who automatically loathe their nemesis just because they (the fans) were born in Long Island. Suppose Brenda represents the Mets, Kelly the Yankees, Dylan the World Series, and Bev 9er (the cultural phenomenon series!) symbolizes baseball as a whole. I personally always liked the Brenda-Dylan dynamic; there was something about Kelly that was too perfect. And it rubbed me the wrong way how she used her hotness and money to always get her way. So you can imagine my disappointment and moral quandary when Brenda left the show! But in reality, the decision was a simple one. There was about as much chance of me cutting 90210 out of my life as there was of Gabrielle Carteris making a staggering comeback. This is how it is: I hated Kelly, but once Brenda was out of the picture, I had no choice but to root for the more attractive option that I knew in my heart of hearts was going to end up with Dylan in the long run anyway. Bev 9er is to some chicks as baseball is to real people, but think about how chicks view baseball and real people view 90210: sheer entertainment that should never be examined through the discerning lens of principles. In other words, whether you’re a Mets or Yankees fan, you’re both biting out of the same Apple. One of the things I loved about my ex-boyfriend was that he was a born and bred Mets fan who complained about the Yankees until he was watching them play in the playoffs: “I’m not going root for a team I don’t even like if I can root for a New York team.”

• Exhibit C: The Airtight Logic of the Immortal Seinfeld- Falling back on the age-old adage, Seinfeld argues we are merely “rooting for laundry.” Which begs the question, what is it that you really hate about the Yankees? Certainly not the players. Barring that dirtbag who wakes up before the sun comes up, you’d be hard-pressed to identify a Yankee who’s unequivocally worse than any garden-variety pain-in-the-ass on any other club. With Seinfeld’s pearl of wisdom in mind, how would Yankee-haters feel if your favorite player went to the dark side? What if players like Jim Thome or Sean Casey wore pinstripes? What kind of psychic crippling occurred when Tony Clark subway-ed it over to the Bronx? Or what if Bernie or Hideki or Mariano were traded to your team? Seriously, who exactly do Yankee-haters hate?

From what I can see, there are 3 main reasons for this asinine hatred, all of which can be dissolved faster and more seamlessly than Chicago fans’ pipe dreams come September:

1.) Steinbrenner: Ok, I’ll give you that he’s out of hand, gluttonous, childish, wildly obtuse, and his power has been abused so much it’s beginning to look like it should’ve been cast as an extra for Saving Private Ryan. So let’s hate the whole franchise! Let’s never support a talented, successful team! Band together and boycott The Apprentice! Oh…wait…we weren’t talking about Trump? Let he who is not addicted to this vanity show cast the first stone.
2.) “They buy their team.” I apologize to the fans of teams whose players have been donated; you can skip over this. So if a talented team is a function of payroll, explain the 2003 World Series champion with the 6th lowest payroll. Or the Mets who lounge in the High Rollers suite and didn’t even finish above .500 last year. Such a weak case. I look at people who still run around barking this nonsense the same way I look at people who wear Uggs. Not only can I not believe these things were ever accepted in the first place, I’m just in shock that there are still people who continue to endorse them as if their merit holds an ounce of verity. The Evil Emperor’s New Clothes theory, I guess.
3.) THE FANS: My personal favorite flawed excuse. Yankees fans are arrogant and obnoxious because we’re spoiled. See, I’m not sure exactly how other fans want us to react to our hometown dynasty. “Aw, shucks. I guess they won again, but who’s keeping score? The important thing is to have fun.” It’s hard to be humble when your team is the undisputed most successful franchise in sports history. We’re not talking about winning a Miss Universe pageant here. Demure modesty has no place in sports. Just ask Red Sox fans right now. And all the Boston talk about how they “always believed”? Read your ringleader’s column after Game 3 of the ALCS: “This was officially the point where I started to give up on the 2004 Red Sox season.” Or watch the faithful fan at Game 4 (before Ortiz’s big hit) with the banner, “I can’t believe we fell for it again.” Well, if that’s not unparalleled conviction, then I don’t know what is. At least Yankee fans trust in their boys.

You hate the New York Yankees for the same reason chicks get enraged with their boyfriends during fights. As you continue to become more rattled and frustrated, the Bombers remain confident and unwavering, even after losing. While every other fan either anticipates disappointment or prays for a win, Yankee fans have 26 reasons to expect superiority. You hate the Yankees because you envy our ability to subscribe to such great expectations.

Here’s an idea: why don’t you just hate your own team who loses? They’re the ones that disappointed you.

It’s amazing how many fans are more emotionally involved in hating the Yankees than they are in supporting their own team. Misery loves company, as they say. If I haven’t convinced you to check your blind wrath at the door and embrace the sport instead, maybe George Bernard Shaw’s words will:

“Hatred is the coward’s revenge for being intimidated.”

Don’t hate the playa. Love the game.

And now that I think about it, I still think Simmons and the Intern are the same person.

Intern Obsessed

2005-03-11T09:39:00.000-08:00

I'm obsessed with this ESPN intern contest. I think because I'm still baffled that I didn't get picked as a finalist! It's kind of like how in that movie Spellbound when all the home-schooled weirdos that lost were shaking their fists at the cruel gods of fate, like, "I can't believe I lost on apotropaic!! I KNEW all the words after that, too! It should've been me! ME, I TELL YOU!" Only I don't smell my hands before I apply for jobs. The application that never made it, but clearly should have:

Remember in Primal Fear when Ed Norton (Aaron) originally claims “someone else was in that room!” only for Richard Gere to later theorize that the “other person” was a manifestation (“Roy”) of Norton’s seeming multiple personality disorder? I’ve been collecting evidence towards a similar hypothesis of mine, and the intern contest just handed me the trump card in this case.

You better get yourself a lawyer.

On the afternoon of January 7, the Intern published his "Emails of the Week" One particular email questioned the Intern’s faceless anonymity: “How come you don’t get a headshot like everyone else?” Now, exactly one month to the day, a pursuit of a new intern CONVENIENTLY ensues. Clearly, the investigation into the true identity of The Intern made someone sweat. Maybe that’s why “Jamie Agin” is Simmons’s “Lois Einhorn.”

I knew I had you when I read, “Please don’t try to write like me.” First of all, slow your roll, T. Wolfe. Secondly, are we to believe you and the intern didn’t share a similar (at the very least) writing style?

Sidebar: I feel like you’re that chick in college who is “in love” with every hot guy, and when her sorority sister tries to make out with one of them, the chick says, “I HAD DIBS ON HIM FIRST!” Point being, the Unintentional Comedy Scale piece alone “placed dibs” on every topic in existence. It was like the fraternity house of columns. Listen, you don’t have a have a monopoly on lotion/basket jokes. Speaking of, where does “Please don’t try to write like me” fall on the Unintentional Comedy Scale?

Your anagrams are showing, Dr. Lector. “Jamie Agin”? I played around with it as soon as you threw out this name. The first thought, obviously, was “Game Ninja.” And it would be perfect if there were another “n” and one less “i.” Like the old saying goes, “There my not be an ‘I’ in TEAM, but there’s an extra N and a shortage of I’s in INTERN.”

Finkle. Einhorn. Finkle. Einhorn. I had the proverbial dog-sitting-on-my-newspaper-cracks-case-of–identities-moment when it came to me. “I JAM IN AGE,” aka “I’ve invented a persona to fulfill my youthful, impish self-indulgences.”

There never was an Aaron, (ie Intern), was there? “Intent to deceive” is illegal in California.

I’m willing to settle out of court.

Quite the life I've carved out for myself

2005-03-02T17:21:00.000-08:00

So basically I don't know what I'm doing in the next 15 minutes, but I have beirut tournaments lined up every weekend for the next month. I spend waaaaaayyy too much thinking of team names, too. Last time I was "it puts the lotion in the basket," and coming up I got "Troy's bucket (it's all over the second you ride up it)," "Because I Like to Drill Holes" (holla blog!), and coming up, "Lefty Gomez & Red Ruffing." I think subconsciously I come up with these names as a way of weeding out the cool people. Anyone who hears one of those names who recognizes it, I'm hooked. See, my friends think I do this as a way of like avoiding contact with people: "You know no one's ever going to pick up on them. Maybe the silence of the lambs one, but do you really want to meet the guy who's into cannibalism?"

In other news, I'm watching America's Next Top Model right now, and I would LOVE to meet the person who decided ugly people are beautiful! They pick these busted chicks who look like the tail end of a bulldog, and all of sudden, they're "different" and "unique." Just because your eyes are set on opposite sides of your face does not make you pretty. it makes you look like a dinosaur. But I admit, I'm watching it anyway because nothing's better than watching girls stare each other up and down and act way more "bubbly" then they really are. Actually the white chicks act all "What! This is how I ALWAYS am! I'm always upbeat, I'm just, like, a happy person!" and all the black chicks have like 3 kids and weird hair and they cry all the time about how tough their life has been, but Tyra Banks has been an inspiration to them. (Shut up I'm not racist. You watch the show and try to tell me any of those chicks are even remotely cute. And I'm not making that stuff up about them having children and criminal records. Seriously.)

Sports Illustrated has this column, "You know it's the apocalypse when..." I think some chick magazine should have the same column and leading it off, "Tyra Banks has been an inspiration to quit drugs."

I kinda feel like a real life spectator of America's Next Top Model whenever I go out. And I walk into a bar and every single chick there is looking each other up and down and up and down. And they all hate each other until they're hammered in a bathroom and then all of a sudden, everyone's lip glass/eyeliner/shoes would look SO GOOD on them!

But actually going to bars is so much better than television America's Next Top Model because in real life, fat is fat. Pretty is pretty. There's no "normal sized" and "naturally pretty." When you're at a crowded bar, the fat girls are fat, not "normal sized." And if natalie portman or rachel leigh cook walked into a bar, before they were dubbed "naturally pretty," they would be the pasty girls in the corner talking about the their boyfriends they met on friendster.com.

ANTM update: all the black people are crying again. I have no idea why.

The great American pasttime

2005-03-01T23:39:00.000-08:00

Men look at staple guns and think of sex. I look at staple guns and think of baseball. Most women frame their lives by what they wore. Pivotal moments can be summoned in seconds if you just jog their memory with something like, "Yellow cashmere, donna karan skirt, chanel perfume." Or sometimes even the song that was playing on the radio can do it.

I remember who the Yankees were playing.

I liken my jeans to the starting pitching rotation. This was a rebuilding year, definitely. I used to have 2 go-to pairs and 3 crappy pairs. But now I have 2 ace starters (for general power nights), my Tanyon Sturtze long-relief jeans (a solid choice for any occasion), and my Mariano jeans (for must-win date scenarios.)

I hate sports metaphors and yet I'm like a walking cliche. Except for the fact that I get inexplicably enraged when people use the expression "come on! step up to the plate!" Because people say it to mean "take the initiative, be brave, etc etc." BUT WHEN A BATTER STEPS UP TO THE PLATE IT'S BECAUSE IT'S HIS TURN! HE DOESN'T HAVE A CHOICE. Ok, I guess you could argue he has somewhat of a choice. He could just crack open a beer and say to hell with this, and then turn his batting helmet into one of those frat boy beer hats with the tubes. But seriously. When was the last time you heard Tim McCarver say, "Delgado's on deck. God, you gotta admit, this guy just is FEARLESS. Look at him! I mean, he's already taking practice swings, and I tell you, this is a guy who truly knows what it means to step up to the plate." Actually I could see someone saying that about Jeter: "HOLY SHIT IT'S A GRAND SLAM BY A ROOKIE FOR CHRISSAKE! HIS FIRST AT BAT! BUT LOOK OVER AT THE BATTING BOX AND IT'S NO SUPRISE HERE WHO THE REAL HERO OF THE NIGHT IS! DEREK JETER, LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, IS ALREADY GETTING READY TO TAKE HIS AT BAT. THIS IS A HALL OF FAMER RIGHT HERE, FOLKS." I may have heard that scenario I think because as I was typing it, I realized it didn't sound that far-fetched.

31 days til opening day. I may or may not implode just thinking about it. I get chills even. But I've been getting chills a lot lately. I was listening to this bizarro techno mix thing that used all these clips from the 2000 subway series, and I was getting chills. Then that song from the end of Teen Wolf came on (Wiiiiiiiin in the endddd, I'm gonna win in the end!) and I got chills again. Basically I can get chills from anything from The O.C. to hearing We Are the Champions to watching reruns of old opening days on espn classic (I could understand playoff classics, opening days is pushing it). So now I think maybe I'm just always really cold? I wonder if when baseball starts I'll warm up. Sounds like a good movie premise to me. The story of one girl who spent all winter being cold and emotionless and then her icy exterior melted when baseball season started again. And she meets a guy during baseball season and they start dating but the big conflict is what happens in November when the season's over? Will their love be strong enough to survive "THE OFFSEASON: The Winter of Her Discontent"?? That has lifetime movie of the week written all over it.

My cat Mariano Rivera is sleeping, and he's clearly having a nightmare. (ooohh, he can be my sidekick in the movie, like a barometer of my emotions!). He keeps twitching and stuff. I wonder if that's what real Mo does in the bullpen when he's sleeping during the game.

Up next: margaritas and mint chocolate chip ice cream

2005-03-01T20:47:00.000-08:00

So I finally bit the bullet and decided to jump on the bandwagon of this whole blogging thing. My only problems with the concept of blogging:
1.) people who are like insanely intense and share all this stuff about themselves. Weird. I feel very bizarre reading about how jenny sometimes want to kill herself and matthew thinks that he may be in love with someone but that he might love cocaine more.
2.) EVERYONE has a blog these days. I can't decide which route I want to go to. I can either make this awesome and like one of those blogs that everyone wants to read. If I go this route, I'm going to make it so charismatic and biting and brilliant that Bill Simmons is going to get a run for his money. I'm SO TIRED of everyone falling over themselves to write like the Sports Guy. Newsflash: every. single. guy. writes. and thinks. like the sports guy. All of 'em. More on that later. On the other hand, I'm thinking I just started this whole blogging thing because my hands get tired from handwriting furiously in my journal every night.
Back to my rant. So. Sports guy. Hilarious dude. No question. Insanely good writer. But transparent, nonetheless. And the Sports Gal may or may not have sprinted to the top of the list of the Catholic Church's Top 10 People Who Get Dibs on Immediate Canonization. It's kind of like how Mariano Rivera is going to the Hall of Fame roughly 2 minutes after he retires. If only you could bet on things like the over/under on the combined time between the two...
One can only dream.