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8/30/04: Tambourines and Elephants First there was Gurvir Dhindsa and the Stumbling Stomper. Now, thanks to a blessed forward from Ambrose, you can add the Nunchucks Numbnutz to your pantheon of internet klutzes. I would say this is worth 15 viewings. If you don't laugh, you don't deserve to laugh. Do not continue reading until you have viewed it. OK. You may continue. Let's assume the guy wasn't hurt too badly.
Or at least that he's healed.
Maybe it's staged, but I sure hope not. The West Side of Manhattan (especially in the low teens) has turned into something altogether un-New York, but in sort of a good way. Like Minneapolis or something. Clean little parks that are a perfect place for you to catch your afternoon winks. And you already know you can't beat the bike path and its views. I think I need a new hobby. I know, between working 40-plus hours at 35% efficiency, and publishing verbungle.com, and being a loving husband and loyal friend to the appropriate parties, I am one busy American. But I think it would be cool to be able to say without hesitation, "I'm a (insert hobby x here) buff." I knew a guy once who I didn't think had a lot going on upstairs, and then one day it turns out he's a history buff. I was impressed. He had a passion for something. We all need that. I'm leaning slightly towards this. Mounting slides might be a pain, but these pictures are absolutely gorgeous. Not just a gimmick. I am open to other suggestions. Basketball can't last forever. Your bagel analysis has blown me away. Remember, it's a depth chart and subject to change if somebody catches fire. But Cinnamon Raisin has the hot hand right now and we're gonna ride him. My wife just asked me to put some batteries in the fridge. Does that do anything? I missed the entire convention tonight. I think that may become a pattern. Just reading the recaps of the events, I am amazed that they are trying to drive home the theme of "courage" to describe George W. Bush. Has he ever done a courageous thing in his life? I think the only time he demonstrates courage is when he can do so with other people's lives. And don't forget this quote from W.: "I was not prepared to shoot my eardrum out with a shotgun in order to get a deferment. Nor was I willing to go to Canada. So I chose to better myself by learning how to fly airplanes." That took some guts. What an utter schmendrick. I really think Kerry better get his ass in gear, though. This election will not be decided by smart people. They've already decided who they're voting for. Nor will it be decided by who runs the classier campaign. Kerry needs to hammer away at the idiots on the fence, the ones who respond to broad ideas and nasty attack ads. The ones who will get behind a candidate because of a catchphrase or dump one because of a rumor. He's got to be aggressive and slick and he needs to pull a Rick Mahorn every once in a while. Let Bush back him down and then "pull the chair" with one deft maneuver. Let W. fall on his face like Jimmy Nunchucks. Bush and his advisers understand all this so much better. They let the hangers-on do the dirty work while maintaining some distance themselves. Once sufficient damage is done, they denounce the shameful ads or reports as if they had nothing to do with it. It's too easy. And we have guys like Michael Moore hollering and stomping his feet and generally making himself unbearable to all but the already converted. He's too confrontational. A lot of people can't deal with that. Sure, he's in the right, but we need to be more than that. We need to be subtle and underhanded and maybe even a little slimy. It's all about the winning at this point. Get on the low road and step on the gas. That concludes my vague advice for John Kerry. In college, I had a friend who did an internship at Oscar Mayer. No, he didn't get to drive the weinermobile, but he did get a nice employee discount. And he shared it with us. The product I remember was bacon, $1 for a 1 lb. package. Throw it in the microwave* on some paper towels and you're all set. I miss $1 bacon and the era it represents. I am totally ready for the visiting Republicans to pack up their shit and leave town. And they can each adopt a terrorist to take home to Nebraska with 'em. * Of course you already know that bacon cooks up real nice in the microwave. 8/29/04: Town full o' schmucks Best softball games of the year tonight. 7 on 7, gorgeous night. Dan K. will have the recap in a couple days, and we'll post some ballots for postseason awards as well. Before the game, I shot a little pool with D. Lee. He's good. I'm not. I have not improved at all over the hundreds of times I've played. Pool and darts. I just don't ever get better. I like playing, though. You all have some serious opinions about bagels. Wow. They're just bagels. There are probably four more flavors that should be on the list somewhere, but I don't think I've ever tried 'em, so they don't make the cut. Sorry. I agree that lox would not make a good topping
for a cinnamon raisin bagel. If I were the type of man who eats lox, I might
have factored that in. But lox is some gross shit. It even sounds
gross. Lox. Yuck. I would never presume to tell anybody what they should or shouldn't eat. I would never criticize someone for eating meat, even though I find it nasty and a little bit savage. But it's your choice. That said, I think eating fish is pretty weird. I know it's healthy and stuff, but as Calvin once said in an excellent comic strip published long ago, who wants to eat something that eats worms anyway? Plus, if two animals were ever put on earth with the express intention of NOT eating each other, they are man and fish. We are environmentally completely disconnected from one another. If we go under the water, we die. If the fishes come on land, they die. We should have just co-existed peacefully for eternity, each in our own habitat. The fish have held up their end of the bargain. You rarely see them climb up on land to drag somebody's baby into the sea. But as a species we feel the need to conquer every domain that exists, so we have dug our grubby mitts into the water to kill the happy little fishes. I guess that's OK, the fishes are packed with nutrients. But when I see all the fancy equipment they make to catch fish these days, I can't help but think it's a little unfair. The fish are still falling for the old "worm on the hook" routine. They haven't developed any new aspects of their game to avoid being caught. But we now have turned fishing equipment into a hundred-million dollar a year industry.* Every fisherman must have the snazziest and most efficient tools to catch his fish. What bullshit. Just grab a pole and a worm and get to it. To the anonymous poster who issued a verbungle-wide gas face: you are not entitled or qualified to administer a gas face unless you leave an email address or URL. Perhaps we do all deserve the gas face. But we're not gonna accept it from an anonymous hosebag like you. At least leave an explanation: why do we deserve the GF? Back it up with some evidence. Thank you for your continued readership. Newest addition to the product boycott list is Pepsi-Cola. First, because their soda is syrupy and yucky. Second, because of the commercial they are running right now implying that Jimi Hendrix was a Pepsi man. Any company that utilizes posthumous endorsements is asking for a spot on the boycott list. Didn't see any protesters today. No protestors, either. I guess I should have gone to one of the protests if I wanted to see them. Still, I rode the old bike all the way down to the field this afternoon, and the streets were empty. It was a nice ride and I was cranking the iPod. The iPod battery situation seems to be improving a little. One thing I didn't count on is that the thing will run for a good two hours after the battery bar is at zero. Kind of stupid, but good to know. After today, I am not going to wrap the pictures anymore, until I can figure out how to make sure they don't cover up the text. So embarrassing. Hasn't happened to me lately, but D. Lee says it still happens to him when he looks at the site. I think I need a new publishing program. Until then, I'm going to plop those pictures right smack in the middle of the page. Ploppity plop. In the meantime, let me know if this one is messed up or not. Thanks. Thanks to the RNCC, the wife does not have to show her face in the office until September 7th. My face will be shown five times by then. I'm jealous. * Source: My Ass 8/28/04: Dog Days Just a quick update on The Dude Who Fucked Up
At Work. We fixed his mistake first thing Friday morning. It took a nice
group effort and a lot of hustle, and we got it done very quickly. No harm
done. The offender wasn't even very thankful. I guess maybe he wasn't as
terrified of the reaming he was in store for as he should have been.
Then on Saturday morning, he got in a huge and embarrassing political debate with another guy. Our man just kept reciting stuff about taxes and individual responsibility and started tossing in what I assume were Rush's standard liberal-bashing catchphrases. He was so pompous I regretted helping him out. The argument eventually became so heated and awkward that I had to leave the room. I wish he had been a little more grateful about us bailing his ass out. It would make blackmailing him easier when the time comes. Dan K. had a nice piece about Craig Kilborn yesterday. He nailed it pretty well. I saw the last episode of Kilborn's show tonight. Guests included Nikki Ziering, Vince Vaughn, Will Ferrell, Kevin Garnett, Adam West, Jimmy Jam, Dennis Farina, Wayne Newton and Robert Evans. For someone who plays up the Hollywood bachelor routine as much as he does, he did manage to embrace some down-on-their-luck celebrities. He was never afraid to flaunt his Minnesota roots. And he got out early. And when he paraded out the C-list celebrities, I always felt like there was some genuine affection and respect involved. But I could be wrong about that. I know a lot of you still love Conan, but I've found him difficult to watch over the last two or three years. At one time I was a huge fan, too. I guess I'll be giving him another chance now, on those rare nights when I am watching late night talk shows. Anything but Jimmy Kimmel and his special brand of mean-spirited unfunniness. So the Republicans have descended on the city. How can we pick them out? Softball players, I would allow yourselves an extra few minutes on the way to the field Sunday. The protests might be near JJ Walker. Or they might not. I personally am going to do my protesting with my bat. I will wear my Miserable Failure T-shirt, though. Sunday's softball game is for all the marbles. I hope I remember to bring the marbles. With the season winding down, some of the hitters are taking their game to another level. Rob continues to spray hits all over the field and Justin can't be stopped. Matt still hits lasers down the left field line, but the shift does work on occasion. The season batting average leaders going into the final week: -Justin .692 I think the new iPods actually have a 12-minute battery life, not 12 hours. In which case mine is working just fine. Thanks for the tips, but I think there may be something actually focacta with my particular unit. I'll drain that shit and give it another try, and then I'm taking it in. iPod: you're officially on notice. I hate poking fun at auto-racing, I really do. But I must admit I got a kick out of the name of this week's NASCAR event, The Sharpie 500. I am still mildly sick. It was a long six day work week, and I'm going to treasure my one day off. Rest, softball, and some picture-taking. Maybe a Tall Boy or two to take the edge off. I don't know what it is I've got; it hasn't gotten much better and it hasn't gotten much worse. Some people at work mentioned that they've been having health problems since we moved into our new, still-under-construction office space. They think it's all the dust and the recirculated air or something. I will say I never remember being slightly ill for so long. Usually there is a cycle to your illness. It gets to a certain depth of misery, and then you climb out and find relief. That's just not happening this time. Hopefully it will. 8/27/04: Spicy Chicken I have very little to say today. Maybe I should say nothing. But that would leave seven minutes of your day unaccounted for, and I'm not one to leave you in the lurch like that. So I will tell you that I had a crap day today. Still not feeling so well (and now I have gotten the wife sick), working hard, dealing with a lot of hostility from other people. And feeling whiny about everything. Somebody at work fucked something up pretty
badly and I noticed it. I have chosen not to rat him out. I am going to try to
cover for him and fix the mistake without anyone needing to know about it.
By choosing this path I may be leaving myself open to reprimand. But I
think I can fix the mistake seamlessly without any boss types finding out.
It's definitely not an unfixable mistake. But it will be a pain and could
potentially cost the company some money. He's a decent fellow, but I am not best
friends
He's a Limbaugh-loving Republican, though. Not in your face about it, but it's part of the package. Maybe I will cover his ass in exchange for his vote. New Jersey's already locked up, though. Right? I received this anonymous blow-by-blow yesterday: "-Thursday PM, eat some of my brothers
spicy chicken So I really have nothing to whine about. I can shove cookies down my throat without fearing the immediate consequences. One thing I won't be eating is meat. It still kind of amazes me that as a species we haven't evolved past this stage of development. We kill and eat animals. Wowie. All kinds, too. Birds, fishes, cows, pigs, lambs, turtles, lobsters, frogs. Chickens, all the time. But then we frown on other cultures for eating dogs. "That's gross." Why do dogs deserve life more than other animals? Because they know how to catch frisbees?* That's not fair. If you eat pigs, you need to start eating dogs, killer. Unless you don't like the flavor. Or join me in eating some delicious farm-raised fritos. No death involved. Just delicious corn goodness. The moral guideline for whether or not something should be eaten ought to be: if you fire a gun in the vicinity of this food item, does it run like hell? If so, it wants to live and we should let it. I wonder if they ever caught this guy. I think I am going as a chicken for Halloween. Chickens crack me up. I figure I'll post some random shots of NYC in case we all get blowed up next week. Remember with fondness the out-of-shape dudes playing hoops on Thompson street. And vote that crapwad out of the White House for us. Actually, do that even if we don't get blowed up. He's still a crapwad. I want a chocolate milkshake. * Upon further thought, this is a perfectly adequate reason not to eat dogs. But it doesn't mean you have to eat other animals who aren't as good at sports. 8/26/04: Seven Strangers So I watched the Introductory episode of Real World: Philadelphia tonight. I'll say this for MTV. Even as the quality of their programming continues to nosedive, they find the most inventive ways to promote their very bad shows and make them look like something worth watching. In the end, MTV's greatest contribution to the world of entertainment will be their ability to celebrate themselves. Nobody loves MTV more than MTV. They operate under the assumption that everything they do is inherently hip and important and will influence the next generation of kids. They think they control taste and style and popular culture, and for the most part, they're right. It's unfortunate. Tonight I thought I'd be seeing the "moving in" episode, where everybody selfishly claims their bedrooms, and people form intense personal bonds with the people who they most closely resemble physically. The conversations usually go like this: "Dude, I'll be honest. I like to PARTY." Something like that. It's fun. Although one thing RW has gotten away from, which I dearly miss, is concept of the Dreamer. In the first couple of years, everybody was pursuing a big-city dream. Sure, they were all archetypes: The Singer, The Rapper, The Writer, The Model, The Annoying Cartoonist Loser, The Singer again, The Playwright, The Race Car Driver, etc. But the aspirations they had gave the show a purpose, even if it was just surface bullshit. Now it's, let's throw a bunch of hot people in a house together, supply the booze, and watch the fucking. Still good TV, but it gets old pretty fast as the shock value diminishes. The new archetypes, which they are really not straying too far away from these days, go something like this: -The black guy who hasn't hung out much with
white people thus far in his life There are probably a few more, but it doesn't matter. The apartment really just serves as a blender to get all these people drunk so they can climb all over each other while the little Paris Hilton bedroom camera rolls. The last four seasons or so have been nearly identical. And instead of realizing they've become formulaic and attempting to shake things up, MTV's marketing whizzes decide to capitalize on it, to embrace it. Smart. Those guys are smart. Tonight's show wasn't the entertaining "moving in" episode, but rather a season preview kinda thingie, where they brought back some of the more enjoyably loathsome cast members from seasons past to discuss the incoming Philly cast. The guy Dan from the Florida season is a gem. Shallow and proud of it, with a bitchy comment about nearly everyone. He's actually got a decent blog, btw. Anyway, MTV has basically said, we give up, this show no longer even pretends to have any redeeming social value. It's just a bunch of drunken flesh fighting and rubbing against other flesh. Sit back and enjoy. We are MTV. Thank you for your attention. So they sort of introduced the characters tonight. The usual bunch. I will report back on this next week after the "moving in" episode. It looks like a pretty sucky season. When are they gonna show some balls and have an Islamic Fundamentalist move in? With Dan K.'s eyewitness testimony, which is now a matter of public record, I think we can safely put the line drive mystery to bed. We now have accounts from the three people who were closest to the play (Dan, Chris H., and myself), and they all say the same thing: I caught the damn ball. The rest of yous is just plain cray-zee. I would ask for a group apology, but I know that's not the way you bastards run your respective shops. In fact, Joe Monkeyweb still demands an explanation for the "trappy" sound, I'll tell you what, Joe: I don't rightly know what caused that sound, or even what a "trappy" sound is.. How about you call Bill Nye, Mr. Monkeyweb? It's as if I was just freed by DNA evidence after serving 28 years for a murder I didn't commit, and you want to know why the victim's head was found in the trunk of my car. I am insulted. Details like this are best left to bitter, vindictive little men like yourself. Life's too short and there are too many line drives to catch for me to worry about some fucking "trappy" sound. I enjoyed reading everybody's blogs today. There was a lot of cross-linking and shout-out giving and stuff. It's almost like we've formed a small but effective little internet community. We're not in it for the big visitor numbers or the fancy rides. We're about fresh content every day of the week. Hopefully more people we know will be inspired by our cringe-inducing camaraderie and will launch readable blogs of their own in the near future. I look forward to it. Remember kids: it's cheaper than cigarettes. There was a tenacious squirrel on the field for the bulk of the Yankee game tonight. At least three times they tried to catch it, kill it, or otherwise evict it from the stadium, and they failed each time. Not sure if they finally scared him away, but he was out there sheepin' in left field for innings at a time. He gets major respect from our entire editorial staff for his guts and cunning. In fact, anytime a squirrel camps out on the field during a professional sporting event, the sun in my world shines a little brighter. And the larger the animal, the better. I'm gonna go ahead and say that's a rule. Imagine if there was a cute li'l Shetland Pony grazing out on that weird centerfield hill in Houston? And they couldn't get rid of it? That would make my day. Lastly, my iPod's 12 hour battery doesn't seem to be lasting nearly 12 hours. What am I doing wrong? I turn it off when I am done using it, and still the battery seems to drain fast. 8/25/04: Caught in a trap I love my iPod. I'm actually looking for a way to sweet-talk it into the sack. I am rapidly and dangerously approaching gizmo fetish territory. I've started reading iPod magazines and stuff (but I swear somebody I work with lent it to me, I didn't buy one), and I'm actually wishing my commute was longer so I'd have more time to rock out. The only thing that makes me sad about the whole thing is it serves as a reminder of how little music I have that I actually want to listen to. I wish Napster Original Gold or Audiogalaxy or even Kazaa were still flowing the free shit. I could use Kazaa, I guess, but I'm pretty sure they're the creeps responsible for me having to reformat my hard drive. Good advice from Pete about unchecking the shitty songs in iTunes so they don't pollute what might otherwise be a perfect shuffle. Only problem is I am too obsessive to leave anything off the iPod, as if I am ever going to need immediate access to that long-forgotten Falco B-side. But I can't help it. So it all goes on there. For now. I also love Joe Torre. And I love that little face he makes when he's excited, the one where his eyes light up and his mouth makes a funny shape, and it looks like he has no teeth. Maybe he's whistling with delight. I also love Mariano Rivera. He is very good. It's not like guys don't get good swings on him, either. When I think of bad swings, I think of Ron Guidry in his prime, throwing that slider in the dirt and guys just flailing helplessly at it. With Mariano, guys aren't fooled. They swing from their heels, like they're going to hit it 9 miles. And when they make contact, it's this incredible assortment of comical bloopers and squibs. It's just beautiful. That ball must feel like steel when it hits your bat. A-Rod kinda sucks, Joe Girardi was a catcher. As an announcer, he sees the game through a catcher's eyes. Sometimes, this serves him well. Other times, it's just plain annoying. Tonight he blamed Bob Wickman's reluctance to throw a breaking ball in a big situation on the fact that the Indians' catcher was a "bad blocker." I'm not buying that. I just downloaded Eddie Murphy: Comedian and listened to a few minutes of it. I remember howling at this one when I was fourteen, and yes, unlike Fletch, it is actually still funny. But I am more shocked by just how offensive it is. Not just in a good, breakin' the rules kinda way. In a small-minded, hateful, paranoid kinda way. Eddie definitely had/has some issues, especially relating to homosexuals. But he was one powerful talent. One thing I like about the Reader Challenge is that the answers sort of slowly trickle in over a few days, and by the time they come in, I've usually forgotten what the questions were. So I end up seeing these bizarre answers that make me crack up without even remembering the question. They're almost funnier out of context. Like this one from today: "the sound of your nuts knocking together" I forgot that tonight was the premiere of Real World: Philly. But you know who didn't forget? My buddy the DVR. He divo'd that shit so I can watch it tomorrow at my leisure. I know most of you scoff at me for my continuing allegiance to The Real World, and I have to admit San Diego and maybe the last four seasons before it were mostly crap, but I'll probably keep watching that shit 'til it goes off the air. I will give you my thoughts on the new cast at some point in the near future. Feel free to roll your eyes and skip past it. I like Jon Stewart. He's quick and he's funny. But I think he really blew the Kerry interview. Too much ass-kissing, too little willingness to actually go ahead and ask the tougher questions that he had on his index cards, all nicely typed up, right in front of him. Questions that would have helped people form an opinion. For his part, Kerry came across pretty warm and engaging, and he has got some terrific -- dare I say presidential -- hair. I know I issued a product boycott a while back...what was the product again? Oh, yes, Equinox Fitness Clubs. Hopefully you're sticking to that one. You can pretty much put all Coors products on that list forever as well. And I have a new product to boycott, starting today. Amstel Light. Reason: their offensive new ad in which soulless post-college white boys have a contest, complete with videotaping and high-fiving, to see which underpaid food deliveryman can get to their swanky date-rape palace first. Offensive. You'll see it soon. It reminds me of that a-wipe friend of a friend who used to order one can of root beer from Kozmo.com as a goof, and of course give no tip. If the internet ever fails, you can trace it back to that guy. And have you seen the new ads for The Fuse? Pretty out there. I am getting sicker. I guess that's the first step towards getting better. I'm no doctor, though. I could be wrong. Gonna be real busy at work, too. Minimum effort won't do. These next ten days are on schedule to suck some giant moosecock. At least George W. Bush is coming to town to tell me how he's going to make my life more better. We have recently gotten a clamoring for more entries in the Trayline odyssey (OK, it was one request, and the requester was probably just trying to be nice). I am going to tackle this one in the next few days, but it's kind of tough. To do it right (and I didn't do the first entry right), I am going to try to remember exactly what it felt like to be 22, shiftless, miserably employed and lost in the Wisconsin winter. Then the posts will begin to kick the necessary ass. And you'll all feel the bruises. I guess I should be a little more alarmed about the whole flying monster episode from the other day. Truthfully, my heart still skips a beat when I think about it. But if I rant and rave about it, I'm opening myself up to ridicule and nobody's going to believe me anyway. I don't think there's anything I can do to make the damn thing go away, either -- from my memory or from the walls and rooftops of my neighborhood, if that's where it's still lurking. So I am just going to move forward as if it was my imagination, or a giant eight-foot bird with human features, or a reflection of something from somebody else's TV, or maybe some crazy dude with one of those old rocketpack things. Another possibility. One thing's for certain. I will never dismiss "believers" as kooks again. (Links courtesy monkeyweb.com) I was thinking about a comment I read somewhere recently, in somebody's comments section, maybe mine, that blogging (still hate that word!) actually pulls us all apart from one another, rather than bringing us closer together. Pete B. did a pretty good job refuting this one sunny day, but I have to acknowledge that there is some truth to it, at least physically. All of us sitting alone at our computers late at night, pounding the keys in search of the perfect way to sum up the brilliant thoughts in our heads. Typing, emailing, posting, instead of getting out there and doing, talking, meeting, screwing, living. But the important thing, it seems to me, is that we are still communicating. We're still spreading our own individual blends of bullshit to the world at large, and with comments sections, people can fire back with a load of their own crap. Thus, communication. The only thing that's changed is now we're doing it from our apartments instead of in bars. Which is a lot easier on our wallets, marriages, and livers. Memo to all friends who I still live through vicariously: don't you take this as a call to abandon your bar-hopping lifestyles. You are out there fighting the fight for the rest of us, who are too weak to fight for ourselves. You're my heroes. Some of you may be wondering about the Line
Drive Incident that I have referred to over the last couple of days.
It was maybe the fourth inning of this Sunday night's softball game. No outs, man on first, I was playing third base. The batter (does anyone remember who hit this ball? Why haven't they joined in the protest? I had too many beers in me to remember details like this) hit a sinking line drive towards me. I made a decent play, nothing special really, I reached to my left and grabbed the liner just before it hit the ground. My glove was probably on the ground when I made the catch. But I felt that I had cleanly and obviously caught the ball. The way the ball was sinking, I expected to maybe shorthop it, but it stayed up long enough to land safely in my glove. The runner on first had started heading to second, and I made a decent toss across the field to easily double him off (If you were the runner, or if you know who he was, please come forward with any information you have. All tips will be kept confidential.) It was a reasonably slick double play, I thought. A brief moment of happiness for me before trudging on with life. The game continued for a few minutes, and all seemed normal. Then my man Kissel, who was on the other team and had reached second base, hollered over to me: "You trapped that ball." I couldn't believe it. It seemed like such a definite catch, I honestly couldn't understand how there was any question about it. Kissel's a pretty competitive guy, so I figured maybe he was just giving me the business. I incredulously explained that I definitely caught the ball, the guy who catches or doesn't catch the ball is always the guy who knows best whether it was a trap or a catch, and why did the runner on first head back to first if he didn't also think I had caught it? "Whatever, it's no big deal, you probably would have had a double play, anyway," Kissel accurately pointed out. That wasn't enough for me. I mean, I knew I caught that ball. That said, I was very, very drunk. If you had asked me if I knew who the President of Chechnya was, I would have known that, too. And I probably would have said something like, "Rick Pitino." So I accept there is some possibility I may have been wrong. But I don't think so. I asked Chris H., who was at shortstop and was the closest man to the play, if there was any chance I trapped the ball, and he said no way. He was convinced without a shadow of a doubt that it was a clean catch. I figured that was it, until I received this email from Ambrose (who, it must be mentioned in the interest of fairness, was on Kissel's team, the losing team, and may have had an axe to grind like that guy John O'Neill is doing to Kerry with the swift boat nonsense): "honestly - you may not realize it - but I also think you trapped that ball" Now I was going crazy. Not only did he think it was a trap, but he said I "may" not realize it. Meaning either: 1. I realize it was a trap, and I was cheating
(something that I must admit is not beneath me, but only when I'm losing
badly, and it's usually done in a spirit of fun). Either way, I was wounded, and a bit shaken in my resolve about the whole thing. So I turned to my teammate VRF to back me up, and he gave me a very lukewarm vote of confidence. Basically, he said that he thought I trapped it, too, in a point by point response to some questions I posed:
So nobody really knows. I mean, I think I know, but there seems to be a lot of doubt. Anybody who can shed some more light, please speak up. It is extremely important. Thanks again to Chris S. for the excellent Phish recap. I feel like I was there in the mud with him. 8/24/04: Angry Creatures Uniting Not much of a response to my story about the flying monster, and what response there was could probably be described as skeptical. I guess I should have guessed as much. I've always been a non-believer myself, and now I realize how frustrating it is when people deny what you've seen with your eyes, held in your hands, and know in your mind to be true. I just hope this was an isolated incident. I'd hate to think that hundreds of flying man-creatures are circling above Central Park right now. There is a rather impressive confluence of annoying events happening in New York over the next couple of weeks. Here's what we've got, on the citywide level: -The RNC Convention and the corresponding
influx of Republicans, protestors, and terrorists -full schedule of producing 3-4 shows a day
starting this Wednesday and rocking on through like 9/6/04 So you can see it's going to be brutal. I don't think the terrorists are going to blow us up (if I did, would I do anything about it, like refuse to go to work, or would I just show up like always?). But it ain't going to be much fun here in "The Big Apple" for regular working folk during this period. And maybe the terrorists will blow us up. That would suck. Terrorism doesn't make me happy. Not a bit. Movie that improves with multiple viewings: Lost in Translation. I didn't really care for it when I saw it in the theater, but maybe I was just having an adverse reaction to all the hype. But it's rather pleasant to have on in the background when it's on cable. FYI department: I caught that live drive. Whatever, I'm sick today and this is all you're getting from me. 8/23/04: Flying Monsters I had an absolutely splendid weekend. I hope you did too. Not much to report, just want to thank the wife and the friends for making me feel special even when I'm not. Went to the Yankee game with Joe Monkeyweb and his missus today and had a great time, even though the Yanks lost and continued to show a genuine vulnerability to those cityless West Coast phonies, the Anaheim Angels. Anaheim is not a city. You can't tell me otherwise. Yes, I know the lead is down to 5 1/2 games. If it was anyone but the Red Sox behind us, I'd feel threatened. But there is something fundamentally wrong with that franchise, something buried deep within the fibers of the uniform itself. Those guys just cannot win. Yes, I am prepared to eat these words if the
unthinkable comes to pass and the Sox win the Series. But I wouldn't break
out the mustard just yet. We managed to get our drink on and holler at the umpires and create a nice attendance* pool (winning guess of 53,985 was off by exactly 100). People are always so terrified of the attendance pool when it comes their way, as if we're asking for money for a good cause or something. Once they are assured it is merely an excuse to gamble away some of their money, they usually loosen up. Today's pool was made more professional looking by Katie Monkeyweb, who actually brought a nice pen and a paper clip to the game. People couldn't say no to it. Some random woman won after evaluating everyone else's guesses and placing her guess in the most strategically cozy spot possible. Good for her. It's becoming more and more obvious every game that the Yankee Stadium YMCA groundskeepers are about as welcome during their little dancing tour of the infield as early-arriving soccer players are at J.J. Walker Ballfield. George, listen. The joke has expired. Let's move on. Why don't we play something jazzy and light, something that gives the grounds crew room to bust out the improvisational chicken dances that we all know they've been holding out on for close to ten years now? After the game, we went on a moustache hunt. I am not proud of it; there was definitely some disrespect involved. These are regular people just trying to live regular lives. But when you display such incredible plumage, you are going to attract some gawkers, it's only natural. Deal with it. You, too. Back to the soccer players. Oh, the soccer players. They are so out of control. More on that in this week's recap, when we get to it. But I will give the soccer bastards a quick no-look gas face for the bullshit warming up/stretching shit they did tonight down the right field line. Arrogant pricks. Yes, I tried to hit them with some line drives. Yes, the game ended when I hit Doug's young daughter with a one hop smash that was meant for the soccer players. But it's the soccer players' fault. They do not know their boundaries and they do not listen to reason. Most likely they have all taken too many shots to the head. I got the iPod and I had a little gift certificate left over. So I bought a case, a remote, and a totally unnecessary but rather cool plug-in microphone contraption so I can record whatever audio I want with the old iPod. Lectures, subway rides, idiotic Michael Kay soliloquies, etc. I'll probably never use it, and I'm not sure how to load that shit back onto my computer, but it can't be that hard. Apple is here to make things easy, right? Whatever. too much to drink for a Sunday. But it was a great birthday weekend that left me feeling good about humanity. An iPod will do that for ya. Major congratulations to Dan K. who got a piece published in Sunday's New York Times. Holy shit! We knew him when he was just a humble softball recap-writer. I'd like to think we "broke" this hot young talent, but we're not here to brag. Whatever. To keep him grounded, we are going to hit him up for a recap of next week's softball season finale (gratis). All of the preceding nonsense was really just an excuse to get to the following story. I'm sure you're not going to believe me, especially because I've had a few drinks today, but I saw something tonight that absolutely scared the shit out of me. I got back from softball, said hello to the wife, took a shower, etc, Just going through my usual Sunday night activities. So then I go out to the living room to maybe update the bungle and watch a little TV. Only it's kind of hot in the living room, so I go over to turn on the air conditioner. I put it on "Cool" and set the temperature for 72 degrees. As I was standing by the A/C, I sort of spaced out for a second and started staring out the window. There were a lot of lights on in the room, so half of what I could see was actually outside the window, and the other half was just reflections of what was happening in my apartment. I couldn't really tell what was what, and I didn't really care. After about ten seconds, I realized I was staring directly into another set of eyes, right outside the window. I'm on the 11th floor, no fire escape, no ledge, no nothing, so I just assumed it was my own reflection staring back at me. Then the eyes blinked. I was totally freaked out, and I ran over to the window to see if I was losing my mind. This creature, whatever it was, darted down the side of the building and out of sight. I was too scared to open the window and look down the facade, so I just stood there with my face against the glass, wondering if I was imagining the whole thing. Hoping I was. I exhaled and was going to run into the bedroom to tell the wife what happened when I saw it: a full-sized man flying away from my apartment building and off into the darkness. With wings. Flapping. I couldn't tell if the wings were mechanical or -- and I know this sounds crazy -- biological. It was the single oddest sight I've ever seen. I assume it will be in the news tomorrow. I can't have been the only one who saw this. Remember to click the pic if you want it to get bigga. * Did you know the Yankees have now drawn 2.998,000 fans, with 20 dates left? 4,000,000 is within reach. That's insane. If you build it, they will come. 8/21/04: Welcome to the Church I turned 35 today. Young in the world of Supreme Court Justices, getting up there in just about every other world, from slashing small forwards to potential Paris Hilton squires. And just about right for an apathetic clock-watching worker bee. Luckily for me, I can still act like I'm 3 instead of 35. Also lucky for me is that I have a wife who has enthusiasm for life and does nice things for me that I don't deserve. Here's what I mean: I got an evite from the wife on Thursday
evening asking me to spend a "Special weekend together." I had made it
clear over the last few weeks that I wasn't really excited about this major
milestone birthday, that I didn't want her organizing a big outing with my
friends or anything, that I just wanted to lay low, get some rest, and spend the
weekend together. I thought the evite was cute, but I also wanted to make sure I
could actually have a relaxing weekend without any major hoopla or commitments.
Then on Friday I got a sore throat and felt pretty shitty and kind of wanted to go home and rest, but she called me up and asked that I meet her at a "secret birthday location." I figured we'd go get a nice meal and then head home. She told me it was in SoHo, which even my ignorant mind knows is where the Apple store is located, so I got kinda excited. She gave me an exact address on Thompson street, and I figured if I was real lucky we'd walk to the Apple store from there and pick up my shimmering new iPod. But when I met her, she escorted me inside the building, which it turns out is a brand new swanky hotel. She took me up to our smallish room and told me that she had booked the hotel so we could have a little downtown NYC vacation, because she knows I love the village. Then she showed me that she had brought my computer and some of my favorite snacks and some trashy magazines and even my basketball stuff if I wanted to shoot some hoops over the weekend. Thoughtful, right? A perfect place to relax and just hang out together. She had taken care of everything. But dickhead me, unforgivable selfish materialistic dickhead me, couldn't help thinking 2 nights in swanky SoHo hotel = $400 = brand new 40GB 3rd generation iPod. And I guess I looked disappointed, because an iPod was worth more to me than a special downtown NYC weekend. I was disappointed, not just for the loss of the iPod, but also for what my disappointment said about me as a person. I was disappointed in my own disappointment. In my defense, I was sick and cranky. Weak defense, I know. After telling her that she didn't have to do this, and saying, "This must have cost so much money..." and hurting her feelings with more subtle immature complaints, I decided to pull it together and try to make the best of this weekend. All the things she thought of were true: I do love it downtown. It is nice to spend the weekend in a hotel. It does feel like a vacation. We went out to dinner at Layla and had a great meal complete with a belly dancer.* Then we came home to the hotel. At midnight, she instructed me to go to the room safe, where my present was waiting. I guessed the code instantly (0821) and you already know what was waiting in there. I felt like a schmuck. But a happy schmuck. Who cares if our kids can't go to college? I have an iPod. So today we went to accessorize that shit, and let me tell you, the Apple cult is alive and powerful in SoHo. Apple's arrogance is really disturbing. The help desk is called "The Genius Bar" and images of men like MLK and Gandhi float by on a monitor behind the counter. I'm like, guys, you open up iPods and un-stick "hold" buttons all day. Hardly changing the world. But important in its own way, I guess. The next available appointment with a genius wasn't until 6:03 pm, and since it was only 1:30 I was glad I didn't have a problem that needed help. I wondered aloud if I could get an appointment with a person of average intelligence in the next fifteen minutes or so. I was also tempted to walk up to the Genius Bar and order a venti latte. Whatever, fuck Apple but long live the wonderful iPod. Thank you to the wife for a wonderful birthday. Tonight we shall eat more delicious food and attend a mindless summer movie such as "The Bourne Supremacy." My throat will be sore but all will be right in my 35 year-old world. * Somebody shoved a couple of dollars into the belly dancer's waistband as if it was a strip club. I thought this was tacky at first but she seemed to welcome it, and soon many other people were doing the same thing. I was too modest, so we left an extra $5 bill with our check, with the following instructions: "Please give this to the belly dancer with our thanks." You don't get to say that every day. P.S. You can now click pictures to make 'em bigger. 8/20/04: Monkeys, Phish, and Coors Light So the lucky 20,000th visitor was none other than Joe Monkeyweb himself. I am pleased that he won, because he has been a strong supporter of the site since pretty much day one. I am also pleased because he lives in New York so I don't have to send his prize in the mail. Going to the post office is a major commitment. Finally, I am glad because he chose the Replacements CD for his reward. That's what I was hoping the winner would choose. It's always fun to proselytize for your favorite bands. I don't have all 74 minutes laid out in front of me, but these songs will definitely make the cut: -I Will Dare Played some fun hoops tonight with Dan K. and his North Carolina crew. Thanks for having me. It was nice and humid and we got to run around for a couple of hours, sweating and grunting like handsome young bucks sometimes do. As you approach your 35th birthday (and I am already in the exit only lane with my blinker on), all you can ask for is some nice guys to play ball with, a few decent moments of individual success, a couple of wins and some exercise. I got all that. Then on the way out of the court I ran into
Benge and Orie(?) and Cori(?), who were sitting on a stoop half a block from the
gym, eating some stirfry and shooting the breeze. They just got back from seeing
Outfoxed, which they said was entertaining. I stopped and talked to
them for a few minutes. It's nice talking to nice people. I've met Orie a few
times; he's a prince. I met Cori (who is his wife? gf?) once before, at Benge's
party the night he moved out of his childhood home for good. That was a
weird night. The apartment was almost entirely furniture-free, save for a
fully functioning trapeze that was hanging from the ceiling. There were a lot of
young women at this party, and almost every one of them succumbed to the urge to Finally, it happened. The brackets came loose from the ceiling. The trapeze fell. And some girl landed smack-diddly on her head. Her friends helped her to her feet, but I was just thinking thank goodness she's loaded, and thank goodness Benge is outta here tomorrow, or there might be some litigation. She just totally smashed that melon on the hardwood floor. Ow. Then some tough guys showed up, looking for fights. Then Benge ran out of beer, so I ran to the store and got some more, maybe another 18 bottles. Nobody really seemed to want any of it except me. I was desperately trying to make the night sing, turn it into something it wasn't meant to be. People were wrapping it up. And I had to concede. I drunkenly split a cab home with Orie and Cori and bitched about the Upper West Side the whole time. So when I saw them tonight, I was a little shaky in recognizing them. That said, they are excellent sweet people. It's a matter of record now: Rich Eisen is dead to me. I used to really love this guy, when he did things like reference the Jerky Boys in his highlights. When he'd call Joe Benigno from his car phone at 4am as he was looking for a parking space near his Manhattan apartment, after driving home from Bristol. He'd even give Benigno a play by play of his parallel parking job as he pulled into the space. He was young and funny and not afraid to look like a tool. In a good way. Only a good tool is on the phone with poor wonderful Benigno at 4am. Not trying to be Mr. Cool Sportscenter Guy. He and Stuart Scott kicked ass on that 2am show. They had tremendous chemistry. Since he left, Scott has reverted to his previous sucky ways. But what's happened to Eisen is even worse. First there were those obnoxious ads for the Football channel or whatever the fuck place he left ESPN to go to. They were playing him up like he was some cool-ass bachelor studboy, and it just didn't fit. Then he started appearing on all those VH1 "I love the 80's" shows, making comments like, "I owned those pants" and standing out as being one of the least funny people out of a whole bunch of talentless wannabe comedians. I had already given up on him at this point. Then tonight I see him singing the unspeakable Coors Light song in a Coors Light commercial. Rich Eisen, you officially suck. You coulda been somebody. We had our office CPR training today (for DIRT team members only). It wasn't bad. It took 4 hours, but my ass is certified. I got 100% on the written test. That's off da hook. So did Val, though, and she got done before everybody else. What a kiss-ass. The only blemish on the CPR experience was this one annoying woman who strolled into the room almost two hours late! We were coming back from a five minute break, and I think she thought maybe she could sit down undetected. She acted as if she hadn't missed a thing, just started gabbing with one of her co-workers about some paperwork she wanted him to go over. Incredible! We were all ready to start again and she was still talking. Finally she stopped, turned to the instructor and said, "I want you to know I appreciate you letting me come late to this meeting." She had missed like 52% of the CPR we wuz learnin'. I was surprised that the guy had given her permission to show up late. After all, as corny as it sounds, CPR is about saving people's lives. I'd think you'd want to sit through the whole 4 hours so you can get shit right. Then, it turns out, SHE HAD NEVER GOTTEN SUCH PERMISSION. SHE WAS JUST ASSUMING IT WAS COOL. To his credit, the instructor guy told her she should come back tomorrow, when he's doing another class at 9am. She was all, "Yeah, I don't think I can sit through the whole four hours. Do I really need to sit through the whole four hours?" I hate her. It's people like her that make other people hate New York. Pushy, obnoxious, self-important. GA-A-A-A-ASS FACE. By the way, this training was VOLUNTARY. I double hate her. Besides that, it was cool. Oh, except for this other toolbox talking about how he wants to know how far a mortar can be fired, because he's certain the terrorists are going to be firing mortars across the Hudson from Jersey during the Republican convention. What a schmuckbag. I'll give him the two MOJO back issues that J. Monkeyweb declined if he's right. Whaddaya think, small pictures like the one posted, or links to big pictures and a plain front page? Or should I keep the small ones and turn them into links to bigger ones? A lot to think about, because if I wrap the text around the pictures, they have to stay relatively small. Your thoughts please. Please be sure to check out Part I of Chris S.'s pilgrimage to Vermont to see Phish. 8/19/04: Y20K Let's face it, the 20,000th hit is coming today, Thursday, August 19, 2004. I don't know when or who, but it's coming (unless somebody's hitting "refresh" over and over on their browser just to be the lucky winner, in which case it might come before this post hits the web). So far it looks like we have an honest bunch (please don't start doing the whole refresh thing -- let's keep this nice and random). And since my mind is completely dry of new thoughts right now, why don't I just list the possible prizes for the 20,000th visitor. The lucky bastard or bastardess (follow the instructions from 8/17 to prove the legitimacy of your claim) can choose ONE item from the following list: -a Replacements compilation CD lovingly
hand-mixed by Hans Bungle himself Just send in your screen-grab and select your prize. At a recent Underappreciated Bloggers of NYC meeting, Joe Monkeyweb offered the theory that Horrendous Michael Kay's emergence as Yes Network's #1 Yes-man has left many of us feeling a strange longing for the days of Al Trautwig. Well, after listening to the Traut announce the Men's Gymnastics tonight, I can confirm that I am no longer experiencing any such longing, if I ever was. The Traut is just a really annoying person. He's not the most incompetent announcer around, but he's always saying something stupid and unnecessary at the wrong moment. If he was your high school buddy, he'd be the one you lied to and told you were "just staying in" when you were really going to the party at that hot girl's house. You'd feel bad for being so shallow, so you'd invite him at the last minute. Then he'd show up at the party and vigorously attempt to embarrass you by rattling off obscure un-funny jokes and insane un-clever theories of life to everyone in his path. Fucking Trautwig. It feels good to say that again. So Phish has perphormed their phinal show, at a phestival in their home state of phermont. I didn't go, but I know at least one person who did. As soon as he dries out, I expect a full report on his adventures, so we can publish it here. A teaser: it involves Phish-loving Republicans (Band Name!). The Olympics are actually good fun, despite the fact that the whole thing is sort of a disaster. For a lot of these athletes, it remains the pinnacle of their athletic career. So you get some drama and emotion that you don't get from a 7-2 Yankees loss in mid-August. And you get low-rent announcers, like poor Trautwig, coming out of the woodwork to cover the many events. I heard ol' Len Berman calling the archery final today. Nice moment for him. The Koreans dominated that shit. My wife told me she was in Seoul during the 1992 Olympics*, and the only sports they televised were archery and table tennis. Americans scoff at those sports because we aren't good at 'em. There's a life lesson in there somewhere, but I'm too tired to figure out what it is. I am learning CPR tomorrow at work. I am on our company's Disaster Internal Recovery Team (DIRT). When the nukes go off, I'm gonna be one of the schmucks keeping order and leading the troops to safety. RIIIIGHT. Anyway, I'm glad to finally learn me some CPR. No excuse for not knowing that stuff. There's going to be a test at the end of the session, and I'm actually kind of nervous. Those things can be humiliating. I better not fail. I found myself at this rather good site today, and it made me realize how casually I actually follow sports. There are people who REALLY care about their team. Enough to analyze strengths and weaknesses and second-guess strategy and dress up in full team regalia. I just kind of like to watch the good players play ball. Props to those who take it further. My friend and his friends are selling anti-Bush T-shirts. They have purchased some ad time on Air America, and they have produced a cheeky radio spot. Please listen and leave comments in the comments section. We're not looking for snarky asshole comments, just constructive criticism and/or unabashed praise, please. Your input is appreciated. I am going to have a long post about the Swift Boat saga in the next couple of days, complete with an insider interview. Or maybe I'm too lazy. We'll see. Oh, the Quisling Clinic thing is a reference to the Elvis Costello song "Green Shirt," off of Armed Forces. He saw that place when he was in Madison back in '78 and injected it into his song. "Somewhere in the Quisling Clinic * yes, I know the '92 Olympics was not the one in Seoul. They were watching it on the TEE-VEE. 8/18/04: Feliz Cumpleanos First off, before I forget, happy birthday to my niece, sis, and mom, who celebrate on 8/16, 17, and 18 respectively. Not that you're reading this, but happy birthday in the cosmic sense. That always hurts my feelings, actually -- when I tell someone really close to me about the site and then they never read it. I think, this shit must be REALLY bad if my own friends and family aren't interested. It makes me sort of want to throw in the towel. I know that if any of my friends launched a stupid site like this I'd be reading it every day, not to boost their ego but just because I'd be genuinely fascinated by what my idiot friends have to say. Even if it was sucky. Boy was I right about being alone in my slight fondness for Craig Kilborn. You all hate his guts. And you are all wrong, but I will let you realize that on your own schedule. Just to clarify/backpedal, I don't think the guy's a genius, and I hate all the "staff writer" guys who he carts out on his show. But when you're hosting a late night show, part of the responsibility is to be pleasant and charming and relaxing, because you are really putting people to bed. Kilborn is much better at that than Conan, whose manic mugging actually makes me angry. Bring back Andy and it's a different story. I am going to take my statements that are sure
to enrage you a step further and say that "The Daily Show" is overrated. Not
saying it was better when Kilborn hosted it, just that the show and its host are
overrated. People jizz all over Jon Stewart, who I admit is likable and seems
pretty smart. But the show is not all that great, at least not the ten or
so times I've seen it. People are always pushing that shit on me, and then
I give it a chance, and
Can we all at least agree that Jimmy Kimmel stinks worse than three-day-old Pirate's Booty? So I got to my dentist's appointment at 9:08 am today, eight minutes late and very apologetic. The dentist showed up AN HOUR late. When he arrived, he said with complete seriousness, "Sorry I'm late. I really need to get an alarm clock." Yeah, that might come in handy, doc. Thank God he isn't an open-heart surgeon. Before we got started, he insisted on showing me a clip from Michael Moore's website. In typical Michael Moore fashion, the clip makes Bush look bad with a cheap shot. Bush was clearly trying to say we are thinking of all the ways the terrorists might strike, and, because he's an idiot, it came out sorta wrong. But not so wrong as to be posted on Moore's website (btw, I can't find it on his site or I'd link it for you -- maybe my dentist was full of shit). I really wish we had a better loud voice on the left than Michael Moore. Although I would still like to see his movie. Anyway, the dentist shot me like five times with novocaine and drilled some stuff in my mouth. No fun. I had been planning on getting an iPod or a new TV for my birfday, now I'm looking at a porcelain inlay for my molar. Yes! Then I hit the DMV. It took almost two hours at the DMV "Express." Glad I didn't get the local. And I still won't get my new license for another three weeks. I didn't take a new picture, and this new license won't expire until 2012. So I will have the same picture at 43 as I did at 29. And it's a bad picture. But it probably won't look so bad when I'm 43. Played some good hoops tonight, won every game. Got a nice free "To the Five Boroughs" T-shirt, too. Just a long and exhausting day. Thank God for minimum effort. I am really disappointed with the word "blog" and I don't think there's anything I can do about it. They established that shit when nobody was looking and now we're stuck with it. If they had taken some time, they could have come up with a cooler-sounding name, something like "Chester." But they didn't, so we're stuck with the goofy if practical name "blog." It makes me wonder about the origins of other names and phrases. For instance, we all know the expression "Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll." Somebody came up with that shit many years ago, and now every guy in a band feels like he has to live up to it. What if had been "Sex, Tennis, and Rock and Roll"? Elvis would still be packing 'em in at Caesar's, fit as a fiddle. What if it had been "Actuarial Rates, Drugs and Rock and Roll"? Things would be different, that's all I'm saying. With just one little word being changed. "Sex, Drugs, and Dungeons and Dragons." "Sex, Monocles, and Rock and Roll." "Guys Named Lance, Drugs, and Rock and Roll." Different world, But I think maybe they nailed that one the first time. The U.S. hoop squad squoke one out today. It's like that bloop hit that busts you out of your slump. They're going to get better and better, and my prediction will come true. I don't actually believe that. Not sure if cW nailed the cat. But if it happened, neither of them ever said anything about it. And now the cat's dead, so my guess is the secret will go with cW to his grave. Speaking of cW, what's with the fancy capitalization? The old double-cap ain't good enough fer ya? Did you know there are (or at least were) TWO Quisling Clinics in Madison, Wisconsin? 8/17/04: Untitled Tomorrow morning I gotta go to the dentist, and then on to the DMV. And then tomorrow night I will be hawking some T-shirts for my friend before finishing it all up with some basketball if all goes well. At some point in the middle of all that I gotta go to work, too. What BS. I am only one man. Lately I have been really worrying that somebody at work outside of the approved inner circle is going to find out about my little site and the cat's going to be out of the bag with its back arched and its claws exposed. I have even taken a couple moments to delete prior posts that might land me in trouble. Curiously, I have removed the posts in which I insult co-workers, but not the posts in which I confess to less than stellar work habits. I guess being fired doesn't scare me as much as being disliked. It makes me wonder, am I the only person in my office who has a website? There are plenty of pompous folks wandering around the place. I'm sure at least a couple of them must feel that their precious musings are worthy of publication. And now that anyone can publish themselves, I have to believe that at least one or two of them have acted upon their urges. I wonder if they dog me on their blogs. If so, I hope they get in trouble. Meanwhile, if you are reading this and you work with me or know people who do, please don't mention it to anybody. It's much appreciated. We just got cable in our offices today, and my
boss's boss was out of the office, so we had a little Olympic-watching fest in
our "team room." We have a nice little room that our 6-8 person team
can sit in to go over show ideas, view tapes of potential new hosts, and watch
some goddamn Olympics on the tube. Watching the lesser-known sports is
fun, but you also come to realize why these sports are lesser-known. I
mean, team handball is a blast,
If you want to see your kid in the Olympics, get him started on that team handball as soon as possible. Isn't it about time all the assholes who concocted the whole "Freedom Fries" bullshit came out and publicly apologized? France's position on the war has proved to be level-headed and wise over the last year and a half. Shouldn't we officially stop making jokes about how wimpy the French are? Especially with so many other good reasons to make fun of them. I will be alone in this opinion, I am sure, but I am going to sort of miss Craig Kilborn. His show's not great, but I haven't really been able to watch Conan since Andy left. Conan's personality is just so awful. He's hyper and desperate for laughter and he's a pretty lousy interviewer. I totally respect his comedic talent but I find him difficult to watch. And when people say Kilborn is smug, I wonder if they are missing the point. There's definitely some self-deprecation in his whole vodka-sipping frat guy routine. I think he's pretty smooth and clever and I loved him at ESPN. Fuck all of you who disagree. Perhaps you've forgotten who came up with "he's not your vydas, he's not my vydas, he's Ar-vydas." We are approaching the 20,000 visitor plateau. Whoever is lucky enough to be our 20,000th customer is going to get a prize to be named later (most likely a piece of verbungle.com merchandise). So if you see a "20,000" in the column at right, take a screen grab (hit the "print screen" button towards the upper right of your keyboard, then open up "Paint" or some other similar application, do a "control + v" to paste the image of your screen onto a canvas, and then trim it down to the section with the "20,000" in it, along with enough other parts of the screen so that I recognize it as my page). Then save it as a jpeg or other picture file and email it to us. Don't go and doctor it, either. Even if this long-winded description turned you off, I hope you go ahead and experiment with the "print screen button" if you haven't already. Lots of bad things you can do with that. We have received a request for more drunk photos. I like drunk photos, and this page (like most of my other pages) sort of died on the vine. I may add a couple of photos of my own, but I also hereby solicit you to email me your own drunk photos so I can add them to the page. You're cuter than you think you are. Sorry about the censorship in the comments section and the ensuing embarrassingly awkward explanation, but know that I will do it again if I see fit. 8/16/04: Simpler Times Losing by 19 to Puerto Rico is such a complete disgrace for the U.S. basketball team, I'm not sure we have anything to compare it to. Remember, Puerto Rico is in many respects part of the United States. It's like if the United States lost to Oklahoma or something. And Puerto Rico's best player wouldn't even make our team. This is a pretty serious upset. But I think it's good. GOOD TEAM > GOOD BUNCH OF PLAYERS. As hokey as that may sound, there ain't no denying it. Look at the NBA Finals, and now this game. Maybe now we'll give Puerto Rico some representation in Washington. I actually missed that game. I got home
in time for some swimming and gymnastics and stuff. The swimming is
alright, especially the finals of each event, but I have a problem with the
gymnastics. It's sort of like my complaints about figure skating: you
train your whole life just to do things a certain exact way, and then you stub
your toe or take an extra step when you shouldn't and your life is ruined.
Too much pressure, too little room for What the hell ever happened to Jason Scott Lee? That guy kicked ass back in the latter stages of The Day, and then he disappeared. I'll always have a soft spot for the movie "Map of the Human Heart," even if it may have had a corny streak a la "The English Patient." It was really an original story and it a beautifully made film, even if today it might seem hopelessly romantic and silly. I liked it, though, and whenever I think about it I'm reminded how I felt back in 1993: like anything was possible. As It turned out, only a very small number of things happened. But that doesn't mean more things weren't possible. So the wedding this weekend went pretty smoothly. I only knew maybe three people there, which was fine. I got my eat and drink on without too much interference. I took a bunch of schmucky pictures, and I made conversation where I could. I sounded off about Michael Moore and Bill O'Reilly and Ralph Nader and Bill Maher as if I knew what the fuck I was talking about. It's weird, Bush has generated so much ill will that I feel completely comfortable assuming that anyone I talk to, even a complete stranger, hates his guts and wants him out of the White House. Yet the polls are close as hell. This seems to me a bad sign. Florida is looking ugly again, and I bet W. gains some popularity there by authorizing a substantial disaster recovery payout after the hurricane. As he should. There was one dude at the wedding who could not stop talking about "The Muppet Movie," which he called "a perfect film." I seem to remember liking it pretty well when I was ten. Might have to see it again. Or might just have to write that fella off as a loser. We saw some deer (a mommy and her baby actually jumped out in front of our car, but we had time to stop) and some geese and stuff out in Connecticut. Pretty neat stuff for a city slicker like myself. I could live out there somewhere, I think. I'm honestly ready to leave NYC if I can't live in The Village. Call me a real estate snob, but the UWS just isn't getting the job done. The only problem with going to Conn. or NJ or someplace is that I really don't know how well I'd deal with three hours a day spent commuting. Those are valuable life hours. Maybe I can open a sandwich shop in the suburbs and just stay out there. I have no idea what I want to do. The path has never been less clear. And my game is almost halfway over. I need a reset button or a couple more quarters. Over-earnest Response to Offensive Comment Alert: To the person who left the hateful message (since deleted) in the comments section: save it, please. Not sure why you "hate fa***ts," but if you actually do, your point of view is just plain ignorant. And while you are entitled to this point of view, I don't have to lease you my space so you can express it. Even if some insane interpretation of your particular religion tells you homosexuality is "wrong," I'm betting it doesn't say to hate homosexuals. Get it together. I wonder if you have ever experienced love. Have you? Have you felt that crazy rush in your veins that obliterates all rational thought? Have you been unable to concentrate on anything outside of the object of your desire? Have you caught yourself grinning and staring at nothing in particular, giddy with thoughts of the amazing person who has entered your life? If you have, if you know what it's like to love another person, why would you object to someone else experiencing these same pleasures? Who are you to tell somebody else who they can love? Sorry about that, but I felt like I needed to say something. Proof that everything has a place on the internet. 8/14/04: Prose & Conn. So I know I said no posts over the weekend,
but we are in sleepy Danbury, Connecticut (not sure if that's an accurate
description or not, but at least it describes my physical state upon arriving
here) and our hotel has some reasonably priced high speed internet access. So
whoomp, here it is. We are staying in the Ethan Allen hotel, right off of I-84. The Ethan
Allen furniture company has its corporate headquarters here, so they just said
screw it and built a hotel like 80 yards down the hill from HQ. I assume this is
where the high rollers of the furniture world crash when they're in town for
business. The bar was hopping. There are a couple of ugly gas stations and a Super 8 down the
block from us. Definitely not the best part of town. But a decent hotel.
And I will wake up tomorrow and pull
I think I might do that every day for awhile. I finally got around to watching "Battlegrounds," MTV2's $50,000 1 on 1 streetball challenge show. The show was fairly enjoyable, but the basketball sequences suffered from a severe lack of flow. Each guy just tried to back down his opponent and shove him out of the way so he could get an easy shot. It was a mug-fest. Most of the games were decided at the line, which anybody can tell you is about as appropriate a way to settle a street basketball game as having someone kick a field goal to win a home run derby. We want to see fluidity and reverse layups and up and unders, not shoving and grabbing and sticking your ass on the other guy to clear space. I don't have a real solution. The guys are all talented, but there's just way too much contact. Plus, the French dude won.* Since when do French people win street basketball tournaments? Since now, I reckon. It's a nice microcosm of today's NBA, actually. Too much physical play. Not enough offense. The Americans coasting on reputation and the European dudes coming in skilled and hungry. Actually makes me want to root for our crappy-ass Olympic team. In fact, while I still feel that if you took the five best U.S-born players, they could beat the five best players from any other country, the gap is narrowing. You could put an international five together that would make it VERY interesting, as Tim Hardaway was fond of saying. I was not that happy with the first installment of "Trayline," although it could have been worse. I had to establish a little background and whatnot, and I still feel like there are at least five to ten interesting stories from that period that will make the experiment worthwhile. Of course, now that I wasted a good hour and a half writing that part of the story, I have come up with a better way to present the whole thing. My genius idea: post it as if it is a blog from 1992, so the experiences are happening to me as I go to work every day. It will give it a "live" feel and make it infinitely more exciting. Not gonna go back and fix the first one, though. Except to change the date. * He had a jump shot. 8/13/04: Blog 'em, Dan-O It is with great pleasure that I announce I now have a fourth daily must-read on the internet. A couple of weeks ago, I only had two. The arrival of monkeyweb.com made it three. And today I found out (through the comments section on the as-yet unsolved lyric stumpah) that our own softball recap hero Dan Kois has a blog. Actually, he has a whole website. And his stuff is excellent. The guy is like a professional and shit. I knew we were going to have to pay him for his softball recaps at some point. (Maybe he'll give us one more for free?) In the meantime, peep his site and enjoy.
"drill your girlfriend's pussy to the max!" Thanks to B. New for this bleak update (NYT reg. reqd.) on a man who enriched all of our adolescent lives. Going to a wedding this weekend someplace out of town. You will have no verbungle until Sunday at the earliest. Please adjust your schedules accordingly. Since I am going to be gone this weekend, and your entertainment options will be limited as a result, I will attempt right now to tell you a little bit about the worst job I ever held. I like hearing people's stories about their crappy jobs. I assume you do too. And since I have decided recently to limit how much I write about my current job, this seems like a fair substitute. It's going to skip around a little bit, and it's going to be a recurring segment, so any given entry might end in a weird place. I should probably have done it in one shot, edited it so it made sense, and then revealed it as a finished masterpiece. But I didn't. And now the whole thing might end up being deathly boring or completely incoherent, we'll see. So I bring you a new section I call Trayline. Please be patient as the first entry is just to sort of set things up. I think it'll get good at some point. Even if it doesn't, it won't hurt anyone. Not much else to report except that El Duque hit 92 on the gun tonight. That pleases me. But I bet it pisses off Mean Old Steve. 8/12/04: Steve Revisited Did I somehow forget to mention that I had
another run-in with Mean Old Steve at Paragon the other day? I decided to
stop by on the way to softball to pick up some softballs. I think I am the
only one who frets about whether we'll have sufficient equipment to play each
week. Everyone else just shows up and expects that it'll be there. And it
usually is. Somebody call me a Wah-mbulance. Anyway, we were down to
the assy mush-ball, which had As soon as I entered the baseball/softball section, there he was. I looked at his nametag and he even spells his name like I do, with a "ph." The guy just reeks of evil. There are plenty, and I mean PLENTY, of annoying people in this city, people I could do without. But once in a while you have a brush with someone who is so fundamentally screwed up that it actually scares you. The air around them tastes different. The lights flicker a little bit when they walk past. When you're engaged in a conversation with them, you are consumed with thoughts of running away or punching them repeatedly in the mush. The lady from the elevator is one of these people. So is the lady who tried to hit my wife with the grocery bag (the lady who drank her own sweat during the blackout). And so is Mean Old Steve. I actually managed to sneak into his department when he wasn't looking. I was hoping that I could snag the clinchers and get the hell out of there. He had turned his back and was berating a fellow employee when I approached the softball section. Of all the rotten luck, they were out of clinchers, at least on the shelf. I was going to have to ask. Before I could, he was upon me. He asked me like five questions in a row, and I just answered, "Do you--" Before I could finish, he was all, "We're out of clinchers." I was looking at some clincher knock-offs but they were rock hard and seemed like a bad substitute. I realized I was now officially dealing with M.O.S. "I was thinking about getting one of these, but they don't seem very good," I said. "They're not. I wouldn't get 'em if I were you," said M.O.S., displaying some honesty. Two young ladies came in at this point and got M.O.S.'s attention. They were looking to buy a softball glove. Poor little things. He immediately started interrogating them, maybe a thousand words of aggressive nonsense in under 30 seconds. The girls couldn't help it. They started to laugh. "Maybe you should realize I'm saving you some money here and you should listen instead of laughing in my face," Crazy Steve said. The guy is unbearable. The girls were freaked out and pretty much sprinted to the nearest exit. Steve swung back my way. There was a nasty-ass display clincher sitting there. It was dark grey and felt like something you'd put on your mantel rather than something you'd use for sports. But it was something. "Would you sell me this display model?" I asked. "What team do you root for?" he asked. "The Yankees." "You're lucky," he said, frowning deeply. "The manager likes the Yankees, and he'll probably give you a deal. And I'll autograph it for you." I was confused. That's what he wants from his customers. Confusion. Hesitation. Weakness. I think he's convinced himself that if he can get them into this state of mind, he can sell them every glove on the wall and retire on the spot. But I never see him sell a got-damn thing. He called the manager over and angrily told him that I wanted to buy this shitty softball. He was angry at me, angry at the manager guy, and angry that the store didn't have any new clinchers left. He was angry to find himself still hustling softballs at Paragon at age 67. He was angry that his wife left him 30 years ago. He was angry because nothing in his world was as it should be. "This Yankee fan wants to buy this softball," Steve said to the manager. Steve is a Mets fan. "OK, how about one dollar?" said manager guy. Steve grabbed the softball and signed his name on it: Steve. I was confused again. Who was I supposed to pay? Did I need to go wait on line and tell them I had an agreement with the manager, and here's my dollar? Or would Steve's signature solve all my problems? Steve walked away. Despite my lingering confusion, I was happy to see that little bastard go. "Look, just give me a dollar and we're done here," said manager guy. I handed him a dollar out of my pocket. He put it in his, and we were done there. The softball was worth about 75 cents. A true piece of shit. But, since it's autographed by Mean Old Steve, I figure maybe I'll put it on eBay. The guy is a legend. Except maybe I lost it.
Anyway, it was fun to see the band play for about an hour. I had a Beck's* and soaked in some cool air and took some pictures. I could really get into not working for a living. The guys in Dub Trio are maybe 25 or so. They probably have no money, but they're doing something they're passionate about. They get up around noon, eat some oatmeal, play with their guitars for awhile, watch some TV. Then it's nap time. I read a quote today that demonstrates the arrogance that goes into joining a band: "When Hendrix came along I thought that I
might as well become a bus conductor." I understand where he's coming from: nine to five is a load of jive. But I always feel bad when rich celebrities bring up a specific profession to signify the mundane nature of the working man's life. I mean, don't you suppose there were some bus conductors that have been huge Jeff Beck fans since 1965, and then they read this interview, and they're like, "Pud." I'd be offended if I were a bus conductor. It reminds me of the famous short-order cook incident (I think I've linked this before). * I've always felt that Beck's is an underrated beer. I bought one for one of Lucas's co-workers today, and I shared this observation with him. "I think Beck's is underrated," I said. "Not by me," he said. Good answer. 8/11/04: Hoops, I did it again Tonight was one of those nights where there were a couple of things I wanted to do and a couple of things I really should do, and I ended up doing none of 'em. Laundry was one thing I really should have done. And what I really wanted to do was play basketball. Well, actually I didn't really want to play that badly, but it pains me deeply any time I have a chance to play and let it pass. When I was growing up, I lived with a constant
fear of my father's death. He was an old dad, 42 when I was born, and I
laid awake at night just hoping he'd make it 'til I was 18, then 25,
|
though. I like his
attitude, but he just isn't clutch. That'll change, though. One of
the perks of being a Yankee is that you have an endless stream of opportunities
to make a name for yourself. Look at Giambi. He failed all the time
in the clutch, and then he hit those 2 HR's off Pedro in Game 7 last year and
all of a sudden his name is attached to one of the legendary Yankee victories.
It
will probably be dissected again in VRF's forthcoming
get on the trapeze and show off what were some very impressive trapezing
maneuvers. I couldn't help thinking that the trapeze was going to snap.
But I also couldn't stop watching the women climbing around on that thing.
It seemed like at least five of them had serious trapeze experience.
it's
mediocre. I especially dislike the correspondents who go around smugly picking
on easy targets to generate cheap laughs. Maybe I've just seen bad
episodes. I give it a 17.439 on the verbungle quality meter.
especially
with the fast breaks and stuff. It's sort of what basketball used to be.
But it's also kind of silly -- when the guy is taking a penalty shot, and he
leans as far forward over the line as he can, pump-faking with the ball before
falling down and whizzing it past the goalie, it actually makes me laugh out
loud. And let's be honest: you could probably start for any country's handball
squad right now. 
recovery. Plus I sit there and
worry that some hormone-deprived little girl is gonna cream herself on one of
the multiple unforgiving apparatuses that they have to climb around on. Stupid.
the
curtains open to reveal a brand new
Connecticut day. And I will thank the heavens that I am not James McGreevey right now.
Remember when I was collecting
been further scarred from rolling through the Everglades last week, so I figured
I'd stop at Paragon and pick up a couple of clinchers.
I
took the day off today to clear my head. I wanted to go see my dad and help him
master his DVR, but then it started to pour so I stayed home and did laundry.
Then at 6 I went to the South Street Seaport to see
then
30. He's still going at 77, and I still worry. Mortality is a
vicious fanged bat that circles your head every day of your life.
Sometimes it flies crazily away for an hour or two while you're out tossing the
frisbee or sticking your hand down someone's pants or eating grilled meat, but
it never loses your scent and it always finds you again before long. 
