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4/30/04: I got my name, not numbers, on my credit card When I was home sick a couple weeks ago, the phone rang one day and it was Chase, calling about one of my credit cards. They had some stupid offer, and I was way too queasy to really pay attention to anything. I had only picked up fearing someone from work was calling to discuss something I had fucked up years ago. The lady was clearly reading off a card or something, and reading badly. I felt kinda sorry for her -- she was so bad at what she was doing I couldn't imagine her lasting very long. I pictured her being let go and ending up on welfare and eventually getting evicted from her squalid shack and finally ending up walking the mean streets of Wilmington, Delaware, blowing guys for Pringles. I didn't want to contribute to that, so I figured I would let her go through her spiel before I told her I wasn't interested. Turns out she didn't even want to sell me anything. She just wanted to mail me an offer in a few days, and needed to confirm my address. What the fuck, I figured, I wouldn't give her the address, but if she had it already, there was no harm in letting her send me some disregardable bullshit in the mail. I could do my part to help her get through her workday and feel some satisfaction and resist the allure of Street Pringles for a while longer. Sort of like taking one of those flyers from the poor bastards who hand them out on 34th street, trying to get you to stop in to Aldo Ferrari's for a new sportcoat. It's just part of the capitalist food chain, and I feel strangely obligated to take part. So earlier this week the promised paperwork arrived. It looked a little shady but seemed to pretty clearly indicate that I had to mail it back in to sign up for whatever bullshit credit protection program they were desperate for me to join. I read it over a couple of times and tore it up. Of course, the wife was going over our credit card balances last night and noticed we had a balance of $1.99 on our Chase card, a card we never use. So we called them, suspecting that it may have been this "offer" we had received, and sure enough, a third party that works with Chase had signed us up for some program for which we had never -- and I mean NEVER -- enrolled. We were understandably furious, and we told them to eliminate the charge. They said we would have to take it up with the third party, whose offices conveniently don't open until 10 am Eastern (after their helpless victims are most likely at work). This is so wrong on so may levels, and I am guessing the story is not over yet. I am too annoyed to really go into it, but here is a nice if overlong post by someone else who has dealt with this underhanded crap (yes, I know he is a "Real World" alumnus, but he's got some skills). Now I recognize that we all have a job to do and I don't want to vent on the people who don't deserve it, especially when I have such a rudimentary understanding of the credit card game, but anyone who could take part in something so fundamentally dishonest definitely gets the gas face. OK, enough of that. I would just like to give a quick request to whomever it is that controls the weather (Dick Cheney?) that it PLEASE not rain on this or any other Sundays through Labor Day. The rest of the days? Rain all you want, get the crops to grow nice and tall, flood the Midwest if you need to. But Sunday nights are reserved for softball and I don't appreciate last week's rainout or this Sunday's less than promising forecast. Forecast or not, we all need to be ready to play, so don't go making plans for Pinochle Sunday night. Understood? We have a new prediction you need to check out. This is at least the third one that implies distrust in the Bush administration. Where does that come from? The answers to the challenge at right are also just about set to go; perhaps I will post them tonight if I get a couple more. 4/28/04: The City Game I think 20 years of pounding my knees on NYC outdoor basketball courts are starting to catch up with me. As I've walked up the stairs at work over the last few days, the right knee has sort of been dragging behind me and clicking with every step. I really want to keep playing hoops, but I have a sinking suspicion that my body prefers softball and, in the near future, perhaps some golf. Dear God. The right knee in particular has always been a problem. Most recently, I twisted it while playing basketball on the courts at 20th street and 2nd avenue on Halloween 1999. This was after I had spent the morning helping Ambrose move from his 5th (?) floor Bronx walkup apartment. The entire event was one of those reminders that you're not young and indestructible anymore, like the three day hangover that seems to follow any strong night of drinking. In the future, not only would I choose to take the afternoon off after helping a friend move, but I would think twice about helping any friend move who had once punched me in the balls while I was choking. Anyway, I had that knee 'scoped by Dr. Norman Scott on January 5, 2000. He removed 15% of my meniscus and I think I'm starting to miss it. Come back, sweet meniscus. I took the Verbungle staff outside for lunch in the park yesterday, and we all ended up getting stuffed with Taleggio cheese and messed up on Two-buck Chuck. By the time we rolled back into the office at around 3, we were far too loopy and tired to post anything. So we went out to Jimmy's Neutral Corner and I eventually passed out under a picture of Marvis Frazier. It's funny how even those among us who publish bullshit websites read by few still feel an obligation to put something up every day. For me, it's like feeding the dog. And when I don't do it, I feel like I've forgotten something, like something's missing. I can almost hear howling in the background. You'd think a quick check of my web stats to count my visitors would satisfy me. I'd realize just how few people stopped by each day to have a look, and then I could relax when nothing new is posted. But I don't know if I trust my stats -- some days are just WAY higher than others (like 7 visitors instead of the usual 4), and I get the feeling that those days are beefed up by search engine crawlerbots. So the truth is, I don't know who you are, or if indeed you are human, but I feel an obligation to produce for you. Not necessarily something good, but something. I'm always thinking of ways I could make the site better, possibly by implementing some even hotter and more dynamic design elements than the ones we're currently rocking. Or maybe by adding a cool new page. Or dumping an old crappy one. But usually I just keep pluggin' away with the same ol' shit, and that's good enough for the crawlerbots. Of course, the site is dramatically enhanced by the reader input that we occasionally receive. Speaking of which, I think it's time for some new Predictions and Reviews and answers to the challenge at right. Get crackin' like walnuts. Derek Jeter is 0 for his last 32 or something like that. I wonder if playing next to A-Rod is giving him a little stage fright. It would be like performing in a 3-way scene with Peter North pumping away right next to you. It could make any mortal a little shaky. Still, 0 for 32 is rather amazing. Imagine if a heart surgeon went through a stretch like that? Or an Air Traffic Controller? Or a bullshit website publisher? Thank God it's just sports. Tonight's quotes confirming the intense pleasure that is television: "I don't wrestle. I fucking beat bitches up!" "You can't operate under the fallacy of the
predetermined outcome." As bored and grossed out as I am by the Yankees, I think last night's comeback win against the A's was a turning point. They are gonna get fucking hot as hell and win like 17 out of 20 games, starting with that one. Either that or you'll see Mattingly over at first base. Maybe that was his plan all along. One of my favorite idiotic un-truths recited by fools in trouble is "Everything happens for a reason." What on earth would make someone think that? Every day we are bombarded with evidence to the contrary. Maybe believing in fate or larger plans can provide some comfort in difficult times, but I will take the exciting, random and occasionally cruel nature of the universe any day. At least until something really bad happens to me. 4/26/04:Psychological Breakthrough Sometimes the Challenge Answers trickle in one at a time over a period of days. Other times, as in the case of this latest challenge, they come pouring in as if sent by concerned members of my immediate family. And even though here at verbungle.com we're always trying to stay on the right side of that thin line between pathetic self-indulgence and top-notch entertainment, I really don't care where the answers come from. I'm just pleased to enjoy the results. I have responded with a new challenge, so please participate over at the right. It's more satisfying than watching the Jimmy Kimmel show. I am also pleased about the ever-expanding reviews page, which has been bolstered again today, this time with a somewhat philosophical review courtesy of Deion Sandals himself. Mr. Sandals is fresh from a half-marathon in which he averaged around a seven minute mile. Big ups to him for his stamina and his original reviewing style. I'll try not to use the expression "Big Ups" again. This may be an obvious and unoriginal thought, but how can Michael Jackson possibly get a jury of his peers? There is only one person I can think of who could have any first-hand sense of the MJ experience. Okay, maybe two. OK, maybe three. But that's still no jury. Sorry, that was unnecessary. I have become a sweaty dude in my 30's. Especially my right forearm. Maybe I'm having a stroke. Hope not. This may be temporary, but after years of trying, I feel like I am finally beginning to not care so much about other people's opinions of me and my opinions. I don't know what initiated this change -- perhaps it is just being exposed to a lot of other, loudly voiced opinions that are easily as stupid as my own -- but it feels good. So to those who disagree with me or dislike me, feel free to lick my balls. Or lick your own. But make sure you lick some balls. We need a new Hero of the Day. This is what's coming to NYC:
4/25/04: April Sweeps This was a rather poor weekend for the two teams I care about, the Yankees and the Knicks. They both got their asses swept by their hated rivals. Somehow, I couldn't find the proper emotional response,
the one that involves giving a shit. The Knicks, however, remain unlovable. Marbury has a severe hero complex and can't make sound decisions down the stretch because of it. Allan Houston has a $100 million contract and he sat out the entire playoffs with sore knees. He could have played. You don't miss playoff games unless you can't move. He could have dropped in a few threes and kept us in a game or two. Kurt Thomas regressed badly in recent months. Tim Thomas is always going to be discussed in terms of 'potential.' Penny Hardaway is a gimpy old bastard, but I respect the fact that he still competes and has some terrific skills left. That's about it for this team. See you next year. The playoffs in general have sucked, although the Lakers-Rockets game today was enjoyable. Unfortunately, the bad guys won, like they usually do. There is a fine new review posted on the reviews page. I think this page has as much potential as Tim Thomas and I hope you all stay with it. It's just finding its sea legs. Give it a little time. Tonight's softball got weathered out. It wasn't quite rained out, and it wasn't snowed out, it was just not quite nice enough to play, so we pulled the plug. Maybe a little prematurely. Oh well, we have quite a few weak tits among us, so I'm sure if some of us had shown up, we would have been cursing all those who stayed home and didn't call. Just as well, it was rather cruddy out there. I don't miss the game so much as all the stuff that goes along with it, and I am considering writing a fictional recap. Or someone else can. Benge N. sends in the following snippet: Man: "I'm not a bad guy. I just have a problem." 4/24/04: Playing It Safe Last night was flawless bar execution. Went down to Lucy's, saw the fellas, played about a dozen games of pool, had a few beers, stopped at San Loco for late-night nourishment, and made it home by about 1:30 with my senses intact. Woke up today just a little bit tired, but with no real hangover. It was just the right kind of night. We were precise in our movements and decisions; we were like the San Antonio Spurs of booze. Not necessarily fun to watch, but fundamentally solid and always looking for the open man.
Had the energy to go get delicious breakfast with the wife (she: french toast, me: omelet) and take a nice 12 mile bike ride on what was a gorgeous afternoon. Then we went down to Caffe Rosso for dinner, and they gave us our desserts on the house. It was a strong 24 hours. Even seeing the sappy new movie with Jennifer Garner (at wife's request) couldn't dampen my enthusiasm. Put a bag of popcorn in my lap and I'll be your bitch for the evening. Tomorrow we have the softball. I will be brown-baggin' it from the first pitch, and taking lots of action photos if I remember to do so. Rules are still being tossed around, with the latest suggestion being each batter is allowed one at-bat per game in which he can call his shot, and the shot will count as a home run if it goes out. He must call the shot by pointing the bat towards the fence like Babe Ruth, and he must use the wooden bat to do his damage. We got a new challenge upper right and new answers posted up in here. Get with it before you're old and sad. I'm also looking for more reviews of stuff. I have about thirty I'd like to do, but I'm only one man in all this madness. Congrats to Deion Sandals, who if all went well ran a half-marathon today. That's a lot further than I could go. Hope he's well in time for softball. 4/23/04: Wasted Web A few months back, I put out a call for people to alert me to the whereabouts of cool shit on the internet. Chris W. responded with some great suggestions, but now I'm ready for more. So I am asking again. Somebody send me a couple of URL's that will entertain me. This time I'm gonna be a little more specific. I want you to tell me where I can find good blogs. I love real sites, of course, but I am interested in finding a good, bullshit-loaded blog to help fill my days with enjoyment. Just a regular citizen with a point of view. Nothing too dramatic, and nothing related to Wil Wheaton. As of now, there are only two sites I dutifully check every day, PBDotC's breaking news and Tony Pierce's blog. Within these two comfort zones I know that even if I occasionally disagree with the content, I'll always appreciate the delivery. Perhaps that's all there is. The internet is down to two guys, muscling it out in the trenches every day to provide worthwhile content, and the rest of it is just a bunch of boneheads talking about Bush and their buddies and sex and work, and doing it without any particular flair. So somebody clue me in to a new internet stud. Today was Take Your Kids to Work Day. There were like 30 kids in our office, disrupting everything. I think this day discriminates against single/childless employees, and I hereby suggest an alternative holiday for these folks, who are constantly subjected to harassment and ridicule (when are you gonna get married? when are you gonna have kids?). I think this new holiday should be called Take Your Jizz to Work Day. You can work out the details. The Knicks are just a bad, bad team. That said, I still can't believe nobody is talking about Tim Thomas' absence and what it means to us. Everybody's all wrapped up in the storyline of how pissed Thomas is, and how he wants to fight Kenyon Martin (that would be a mistake). But the fact is they knocked out one of our key players for the entire series with a vicious foul, and they haven't been punished adequately. Not to sound too barbaric, but one of their guys (Martin with his shameless mugging is a nice choice) needs to get his legs taken out. Although it's too late to help us now. The Yankees are playing .500 ball and I don't think a player besides Jorge Posada has gotten a meaningful base hit all season. Mussina pitched OK tonight, but his arm looks like it might be done. The whole team needs some steroids. Friday night is coming and I'm looking for some moderate fun. I've proven I can't handle anything beyond that. There will be some photographs taken at softball this Sunday. Look your best. A surprise guest may be in the house. Get your answers in for the challenge at right, and keep those reviews coming in. Don't play me for a fool.
4/21/04: Fugazies and Pit Bulls The NBA playoffs have been largely unwatchable and I have largely unwatched them, but this little item caught my eye. Tim Thomas, who is usually a pretty chill fellow, is rightfully pissed off about the incredible cheap shot he received in Game 1 of the Knicks-Nets series from clumsy, untalented Nets brute Jason Collins. This series has been awful, but I don't think enough has been made (by the press or the Knicks) of a vicious blow that knocked out the Knicks' most versatile and athletic player in a series when the Knicks are facing a serious disadvantage in athleticism. Good for Thomas for showing some fire. Today at work the little rubber screens were missing from the urinals. They were missing all day. I imagine they'll be back tomorrow. What do they do, anyway? Catch stray pubes and boogers and whatnot? I guess you can get by for a couple days without 'em, but not much more. Like most things. You know you've come up with a good idea when it's one that other people came up with years ago and have been using successfully ever since. Thus I present you with a new page on verbungle, the REVIEWS page. Like most of what we do here, we see this as a collaborative effort between publisher and reader. These reviews will max out at 200 words and the there will be no limitations as to subject matter. If you have a new razor, come on out and let us know how ya like it. If you saw a commercial you liked or hated, let us know. Movies, books, political movements, countries, states of mind, human beings, sneakers, cars, over-the-counter cold medicines, bars, bands, cereals, cars, commutes, pants, naughty bits, whatever you like. The more obscure, the better. The only rule is your review has to be accompanied by a numerical score as well, on a scale of 1-30. So go ahead and enjoy this new service of www.verbungle.com. And please send in your reviews. I kinda liked this picture because it reminds me of what life was like in Tuscany. They've got a pretty good grip on how to live. Laundry out on the line drying peacefully, herbs growing in the garden. Taking three hour lunch breaks, gorgeous scenery and delicious food all around. Who really cares what you do for a living? Who even remembers? Let's get some grappa and talk about nothing in particular.
This one was just kinda pretty. I could live
there. I wonder if this guy misses me. I miss him. 4/19/04: On the Mend First, a little business. I have a friend who has
what I would call an entrepreneurial mind. Lately he has been coming
up with about an idea a day, and running 'em up the flagpole to see if
anybody'll salute. He has asked me to post a couple of his ideas here
to get some feedback (after all, there is no more desirable and informed
demographic than the mighty six readers of verbungle.com).
Here is the
first idea. Please check it out and
let me know: I would really appreciate any responses you may have. Hey, if you love it, you can go ahead and order yourself something. This also is a good time to talk about Cafe Press, which as far as I can tell, is the coolest concept to come out of the internet to date. The verbungle store is under construction as we speak. Here's how it works: you send them a design, a logo, or whatever you want. They make the T-shirts, mugs, etc. with your logo on 'em. They ship 'em. They deal with all the payment bullshit. They keep a base amount (say $15 per T-shirt, which is pretty outrageous, actually). You keep whatever you want on top of that. So say I make verbungle T-shirts (oh, and I will), I could just send them whatever design I like, charge $16 apiece for 'em, and wait for my three dollars to come rolling in. More importantly, I can get whatever T-shirts made that I want. And it's all free. The possibilities stagger the brain. Next item: NEW CHALLENGE AT RIGHT, MOST RECENT ANSWERS POSTED HERE. I think I am just about over my illness. It wasn't pretty, and I wouldn't wish it on Michael Kay, but at least it's in the rearview mirror. Along with a successful first week of softball (Final score: Big Six 8, Lemonheads 7 on an RBI grounder in the bottom of the 9th). Things are looking up. 85 degrees today (nice), but 140 degrees in my office (gross). The office manager people claim they can't turn off the baseboard heat until May 15th without a letter from this one VP dude in our office, who of course wasn't in today. So we sat there like a bunch of whiny, sweaty fools. For some reason I've been consistently anxious and unhappy for about a month and a half now. I guess I'm always a little bit nervous, but this is different. I can't explain why exactly, it's just a general uneasiness that's really been tough to shake. I'm having trouble taking pleasure in the things I love. And I'm spending way too much time worrying about the shit I hate. I am determined to get my act together and be happier, and that's gonna make for a happier verbungle. A good first step is the thoughtful gift Ambrose bestowed on me today. I guess I should quickly explain that I always liked Steve Kemp when he was a Tiger (I was 9 years old and he had the same name as me, that's probably a big part of it). He hustled and he played with a reckless edge that I kinda liked. When he came to the Yankees in '83 as a big FA signing, I decided he would become my favorite player. Everybody had to have a favorite player. Benjy had Nettles. Gordon had Griffey, Sr. Danny had Butch Wynegar. The problem with my selection of Kemp was that within weeks of his coronation as Steve's Favorite Yankee, his career entered a bizarre nosedive from which he never escaped. Early in '83, he got in a collision with two infielders on a pop fly, fucking up his shoulder and forcing him to adjust his swing. The adjustments didn't work, and he struggled all through the '83 season. Then, in September, he was hit in the eye by an Omar Moreno line drive during batting practice and lost for the season. I don't think he was ever the same player after that; certainly he wasn't statistically. He hit for a good average in '84, but without power, then played part-time for a couple years with the Pirates before being waived. After that, he was back in the minors, a former all-star player desperate to get back into the game he loved. He made a few appearances for the Rangers in 1988, and every year I'd read that he was hitting .390 in AAA and was likely to get called up, but the market for 35 year-old castoff outfielders had pretty well dried up. It was all quite sad, and I always felt responsible somehow for his collapse. I guess all I can do now is keep his spirit alive on the softball field, and thanks to Ambrose, I can keep it alive on the internet as well. Cheers, Mr. Kemp.
I walked around in Central Park with the wife yesterday. I am always deeply moved by anyone who would come to NYC as a tourist, and deeplier moved by anyone who could enjoy it. Not that it isn't a beautiful city, but it's just so full of unappealing shit. I'm a little embarrassed of it, actually. To come here from Montana and find it worthwhile is a sign of an open mind and a big heart. Thank you for petting our giant free-range turtles. Please come again. 4/17/04: Sports Sadurday Today was one of the most perfect days of the year. I spent it inside watching sports (Yanks-Bosox and 4 NBA playoff games). I am feeling about 85% better, but I figured I should rest for another day so I might possibly be all healed up for joyous softball. Crazy-ass rule changes and personal boasts are being bandied about already. I need to be a part of it. This is how the day went: Yankees got pounded by the Red Sox and Schithead Schilling in another snorefest. Let them have their early fun. It's the natural way of things. Celtics got blasted by the Pacers in an unspeakable, unwatchable abomination of a game. Knicks got manhandled by the Nets, and Marbury was MIA. Every year, there are a couple of teams who look confused by the entire playoff dealie. Like they don't belong or don't care or don't know what the hell is going on. These teams usually don't last long. I think the Knicks and the Celtics are this year's victims. The Knicks had some guys in there who looked like kids lost in a department store. If Marbury isn't doing his thing, we are in deep shit. Kurt Thomas' game is in another dimension right now. Shandon Anderson can't shoot. Nobody can shoot. Nobody can post. And worst of all, nobody looked that upset. I hope Lenny can dig deep and find his inner tyrant, because this team needs to get shredded in the locker room if they are going to recover.
Then the Spurs blew out poor Hubie's Grizz and I just got too tired to watch this Lakers-Rockets gazzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. 4/16/04: Cipro and Gatorade Fucking Julio Franco is still playing. That must be really fun for him. Not fun is being sick and missing work right when you get back from vacation. Less fun is attempting to work, going home early and then your boss telling you the next day that you've made him and another co-worker sick (even though he's wrong). My temperature hit 104 last night, and I went to the doctor today. She blames something I ate, some bacteria which has got ahold of my insides and is playing Australian Rules Football in there. I'm on Cipro and Gatorade right now. Having a doctor prescribe Gatorade erased any lingering doubts I had about its legitimacy, and reinforced my longstanding belief that it is a magic elixir sent straight from the Gods. I drank it out of a glass with a straw last night as I laid in bed with a truly paralyzing headache. That shit patched me up in a jiffy. That and the Alleve and the heating pad and the multiple blankets. God Bless you, Gatorade. I will probably have to miss softball. But I've been banged up and sick enough over the years to have a sense of gratitude for those weeks and months that go by where the old body seems to be working fine, where you wake up every day and your joints don't ache, and your head is completely free of congestion. So I accept these mild setbacks with a sense of calm; better days are ahead and behind. Yesterday during my brief time at the office I went to my local Dirty Deli (51st and 11th) for a bottle of water. The guy ahead of me on line was in his late 50's, wearing a slightly rumpled grey suit. It was around 11am, so I figured he must have been on a work break. He bought one can of Coors Light (complete with legally exculpating paper bag), and five Win for Life lottery tickets. I followed him outside and watched him climb into his Jeep Cherokee. As far as I'm concerned, he's already won for life. I like it when baseball announcers debate whether a guy "went around" on a checked swing or not. First of all, nobody really knows the rule, at least on the broadcaster level. But they don't let that stop them from discussing it in depth and replaying the "swing" five times. What is the rule? I dunno, but it seems to me it's more of a gut judgement kinda thing, where the umpire just sorta goes, "Yeah, ya swung" or "Nah, ya didn't swing" or "Shit, I was over here at first base checking out chicks in the stands instead of paying attention -- I'm gonna say ya swung." I will attempt some NBA playoff picks tomorrow if I can. I am still feeling pretty weak. Weak like the Eastern conference. Now a few thoughts on my Italy trip. Today, the music. Listening to the radio during long country drives was a bit of an adventure. Call me closed-minded, but Italian Pop Music doesn't interest me. Luckily, there are a few stations there that play stuff sung in English. Still, it occasionally became a real challenge to find one of these stations. I found myself deeply appreciating simple pop songs that I would probably never listen to over here, because we have so many options. 1. Alicia Keys' new single: beautiful. It almost
made me cry whenever they played it. Val S. sends in this terrifying link. What is going on? I really think that Bush is slowly spiraling into desperation and defeat, but I wouldn't want to be the guy who takes over for him. What a mess. What a shame. A few more pics of Italy, for anyone who's interested. This was the driveway of our hotel near Montalcino -- it was a renovated castle atop a hill. This was the view from the driveway. These are assorted shots from Florence. I have about 500 more, so let me know what you want to see: people, statues, countryside, dogs, cats? I've got it all. The winner of the creative writing contest is Chris Brush, brother of legendary web guru Pete Brush. What a small circle we are. Chris, send in your address so I can mail you your prize. I will post all the entries tomorrow as I am losing my strength right now. Thanks to those who submitted for your excellent work. There are no losers here today. 4/15/04: Housekeeping So I wanted to post some stuff the other day, and then I got violently ill. Still pretty sick, but feeling a little better. When your stomach is all kablooey, one thing that makes you feel better is lime popsicles. Another thing is when Pete forwards me a subject line from spam he received that goes like this: "I much prefer barnyard sluts taking multiple donkey cocks." That puts it all in perspective. I want to encourage you all to send in last minute submissions to the creative writing contest. I will post the winner tomorrow. Also, send in a few more responses to the challenge at right. It don't hurt. I gather, due to questionable weather and unquestionable Easter, there was no softball last week. This week we will change all that. Sunday night at 6:30pm. Come on out and support your country. I can't help feeling cosmically significant when I leave North America for the first time since Phil Mickelson started playing professionally, and he goes and wins the Masters. I am disappointed, but I guess he had a heroic charge to win it, so let's tip our hat to that gross bastard. Sorry for leaving during a major tournament, I won't let this happen again. I did receive an email from a reader that went like this: "Your website really BLOWS. I want to make it clear that I am no great fan of Tiger Woods. He's a corporate shill and a big phony and the world would be much cooler if he was just a little bit cooler. But I admit that I root for him, for a couple of reasons. 1) A person of color dominating in an exclusionary,
elitist sport like golf is long overdue and satisfying. While viewing the Tuscan countryside, I took note of the sheep that were peacefully chilling in the fields, and it occurred to me that we need a new phrase in the vernacular: Sheepin'. Here is my working definition: 1. To lay low after a particularly spectacular failure or embarrassment. I made such a dick out of myself at that last extravaganza, I'm just sheepin' this weekend. 2. To stand around with no apparent purpose. That crazy motherfucker was sheepin' right in the middle of Second Avenue! I hope you like it and use it. 4/13/04: Catlong sighs holding Kitty's black tooth Got back from Italy today. Actually from Nice via Monaco. We drove from Florence to Monaco yesterday so we could spend the night near the airport we were departing from (Nice), and the drive was supposed to take four hours. It took ten. It was like rush hour Chicago traffic the whole fucking way. We ended up getting into Monaco at around midnight, we hadn't eaten any dinner, and we had to get up at 6am to catch our flight. So we booked over to the cheesy brasserie in the casino, had a shitty meal in about a half hour, and I convinced the wife to let me blow 50 Euros gambling. It was already going on 2am, so we just went in and set that 50 Euro/15 minute time limit, and got our wager on. Unfortunately, the only blackjack tables that were operating had a 20 Euro minimum, so I headed to the lonely shame of the 2 Euro computer poker machine. I got four fours in my first hand for a 50 Euro payoff, and I built it up to 72 over the fifteen minutes we were there. No skill involved, mind you. But 72 Euros is close to 100 bucks and we felt pretty good about that, especially after blowing scads of money on this trip. Coming back into JFK today was dismal -- it was foggy and rainy and you could not see the ground until we were approximately 15 feet above it. People who turned away for a minute were shocked when the wheels touched down -- seconds earlier we had seemingly been floating among the clouds. But those people were suckers -- I had been following Delta's in-flight play by play of altitude, speed, wind, etc. that they constantly update on the little monitors in the cabin. So I knew we had to be getting close. So Italy was fucking great. I am going to try not to talk about it too much because I wouldn't really want to hear about your vacations, unless you had crazy anonymous sexual adventures or got robbed or drove a car over a cliff or something. I assume you feel the same way about my trip, and since it was fairly smooth and full of typical touristy stuff, I will not give you a sleep-inducing recap. Instead, I will pepper the website with small observations over the next few days as I think of them. Mostly about the differences in day to day living between the US and Europe (or at least the small section of it that I saw). We'll get to that shit later.
4/1/04: Flying with Fools So tomorrow (Thursday), April 1st, I take off for Italy. It's gonna be rainy. I can tell you that without looking at the forecast. Once again I issue this courtesy warning to potential terrorist types on my flight who might have some ideas about pulling some shit. Don't fuck with me or the crew. I will take you out. You can stab me and shoot me but you won't get to that cockpit. I'll just keep coming like a slow, fat Terminator. I'll bust your nose open on an armrest, and I'll keep bashing it and busting it up even more. Then I'll turn my attention to your friends. I'll kick them each square in the nuts in rapid succession, and while they're doubled over in pain I'll slam their heads together like coconuts. Long after your entire squad has lost consciousness, I will still be performing disturbingly violent acts upon your persons. It will get to the point where other passengers will be so freaked out by my unending capacity for righteous violence that they will all be utilizing their air sickness bags in one mass vomit session. My eyes, glowing red with psychotic rage, will finally begin to calm down as I survey the scene. Once I'm sure you and your buddies are out for the duration of the trip, I will return to my seat, high-fiving the still-reeling passengers as I walk down the aisle, grinning the same stupid grin that Wade Boggs grinned as he took that cop's horse for a victory spin after the '96 World Series. Once I am seated again, I will hit my little "attendant call" button, and when the grateful stewardess arrives at my row, I will calmly order a round of drinks for everyone on the plane (except the first class passengers), and two Bud Tall Boys for myself. I will probably be asleep before I finish the second can. If by chance my plane does get all blowed up, know that I went out fighting like a wild dog, just like Tony Herbert would've. I thought I was becoming a better flyer, but I guess it still makes me a little nervous. That's why they serve free drinky drinks on intercontinental flights. Tonight I did a last load of laundry (dark colors). As I transferred from washer to dryer, I noticed that some punk's tighty whiteys were mixed in with my shit. They must have been stuck to the top of the washer or something, and I accidentally washed 'em up with my stuff. Gross. Too much is going on. I'm in that last-minute panic mode, trying to get all sorts of crap done before night's end. And yet I still find time to update the verbungle. I guess I'll learn to speak Italian on the plane. Shouldn't be too bad. I am looking forward to the trip, but I will miss my USA as well. I'll miss Chappelle's show and the first few weeks of baseball season. I'll miss the Final Four and the Sopranos. I'll miss PBdotC and all the other websites and shit that help me pass the days in relative contentment. I'll miss my friends and my technology. I'll miss updating the bungle. I'll miss anybody who takes time out from his or her day to read the site, jacking up my unique visitor count and making me ever more appealing to big-name advertisers. Y'all are some fast and clever (and formerly well-hung) responders to the challenges. New answers are posted and a new challenge has been launched above right. Google email, anyone? A GB of storage? Sounds good. Except the part about tying in the advertising to the email content. WTF is that about? Don't be reading my email, google. That's for my eyes and the recipient's eyes and John Ashcroft's eyes only. If I can, I'll post some ninja-style 56kbps shit from the EU. If not, I'll see you in mid-April, with the Yankees sitting comfortably and permanently in first place. P.S. Softball starts 4/11/04 at 6:30pm. I won't be here but somebody will send out an email with details. Swing, mighty batsmen. I have a few suggestions for rule changes, but maybe we can solicit everyone's ideas at the first couple of games and then let people vote...? My one thought is a "Dinger Inning" similar to the beer frame in bowling (well, not really similar, but it has a similar name). In this predetermined inning, all home runs count as home runs. Until somebody shatters a car window or kills a baby. Then we go back to the old rules. |
Number of brave souls who made it to the bottom: