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The main reason we've been posting all of these stupid college pictures is because it's kinda fun. Stupid and fun, that's our goal here. The other reason is that about five years ago, Brady in Chicago sent out an email requesting everyone's college pictures. He had a grand vision: to scan and post everyone's pictures in one central internet location, so we could all go check 'em out and download 'em whenever we wanted. A great plan, but also a very time-consuming one. We all sent in our photos, but Brady's a busy man and he just never got around to posting 'em. Until now. Every day, he's reaching into his vaults and emailing around a couple of great shots that I had nearly forgotten about. I in turn am passing them on to you, the reader. So enjoy them. He may lose interest at any time. As I look back at them, I realize that in the last 18 years (since my freshman year in college) I have gone through 3 distinct phases: Boy, Transitional Man, and Mature Ugly Man. Boy, as evidenced in today's photo*, lasted from maybe 1974 when I was 4 or 5 through 1993 when I was 23 or 24. Transitional Man, which occupied that teeny little sliver from age 24-26 in the middle there, was a good time. Transitional Man was happy to run his mouth all day long and he didn't worry about a thing. When it was your turn to drink, he'd let you know. He had not yet realized the world owed him nothing. Mature Ugly Man, who emerged in maybe 1996, has fully realized that. Also, he just keeps getting uglier. We gotta do something about him.
You know what I miss about Boy and Transitional Man and the times they lived in? Streaking. You can pass whatever judgments you want on me, but for my money there is nothing better than a good 4am streak. And Madison is the perfect size city for streaking. Enough cops around to provide the thrill of the potential arrest, and enough people walking the streets so that you might find yourself in a conversation with a stranger as you run past them naked. But not so many people that it makes it hard to streak in a group of ten or twelve without getting caught. As you can see from the expression in the 2005 pic, there will be no streaking any time soon for Mature Ugly Man. That's OK, though. Nobody needs to see Mature Ugly Man naked right now anyway. Somebody go streaking this weekend. I mean a good mile and a half streak. Thank you. I do miss those days, but there is plenty to be said about being Mature Ugly Man. You know where you stand. You accept reality. You wake up clear-headed and guilt free and you go to bed knowing that you have the love of a good woman who will always be there for you. You make more money and you are more capable of growing body hair. Joe Monkeyweb and the lovely Mrs. Monkeyweb stopped by to check out the baby last night, and they gave us a couple of very generous gifts. Wonderful people, those two. One thing they gave us was a large inflatable Curious George doll. It's really cute, but it's also kind of terrifying. If I was alone in the house and I was trying to sleep, and I rolled over to see this character sitting in a chair staring at me, I would scream until the neighbors arrived. Yikes. OK, for 2 points, tell me why I look distraught in the picture accompanying yesterday's post. If you were there or know the answer already, you are ineligible for these 2 genius points. Also, for 6 points, whodat? * And it's one of the rare shirts from that era that I wish I could get back. I had it in college fro about two weeks, then somebody lifted it. 7/27/05: A dip dip, a dip dip, a dip doby doby doby doby daba daba doby daba
Upon further reflection and with the passing of enough time, I now realize I was wrong. Wrong about a number of things. I was wrong when I got a cubic zirconia stud in my left ear in 1988 (pictured, click on photo for larger view). And I was wrong in 1991 when I did it again. I was wrong when I repeatedly insisted to anyone who'd listen that Bruce Springsteen was the only recording artist worth listening to. A few years later, I can now sort of see that I might have been wrong to like Pearl Jam more than Nirvana. Most people would say I was. I was wrong to resent the Yankees for cutting back on Steve Kemp's playing time in 1983 to make room for some skinny rookie. I was wrong to support the Marbury trade. I was wrong to buy a Wisconsin golf hat on my first day on campus in 1987. I was wrong to buy tie-dye bikini briefs (!) in 1988. I was even wronger for buying them a size too small. I was wrong to insult that bartender in Chicago a few years ago. That goes for all those I've insulted wrongly over the years. In fact, I'm gonna go ahead and say I was wrong that time when I insulted you. I don't think I was wrong with my list of Dazed and Confused characters, but "Greg" seems fairly certain that I was.* I was wrong to call Liev Schreiber "Gravyface" for no reason in the schoolyard in 8th grade. He was right to punch me for it. I was technically wrong to throw that dude's shirt into the river at the company party a few years ago. But I'd probably do it again. I was wrong to think "Fletch" was funny in 1985, even if I wasn't alone on that one. I was wrong not to look for a real job right out of college. And 11 and a half years later, I can confidently admit that I was wrong when I figured I would only stay at this job for six weeks, tops. I was wrong to refuse to participate in my 5th grade graduating class's performance of "Ain't No Stopping Us Now." There are better times to take a stand, even for a ten year-old. I was wrong to buy Bell Biv DeVoe's "Poison" album. And I'm wrong now for disavowing it. I've been wrong on matters of taste, behavior, fashion, opinion, and manners.** I've been off-base in my predictions of things to come, and I've been wrong in my understanding of things that just happened. My instincts have failed me repeatedly. 80 percent of the time, if I like something right off the bat, in the end I'll see how wrong I was for feeling that way. I was wrong to throw a half-empty case of Old Milwaukee off a railroad bridge at some people who were heckling me from the river below, and I am grateful it didn't kill them. The only comfort I can take in all this wrongness is that the period between me thinking something and me realizing I was wrong for thinking it is getting shorter. I can now admit that I was wrong about "The Life Aquatic" (#48) even though I only saw it a few weeks ago. The point I'm getting at is, I keep being wrong. But Goddammit, I was right about The Spin Doctors. I nailed that shit from Day One. *** Dear Microsoft Outlook Users, I've been noticing that some of you have become fond of attaching a "delivery receipt request" to all of your emails. It works something like this: I'll get an email from a colleague, and when I attempt to open it I will get a little popup window that says, "Randy LeDoucheoise has requested a delivery receipt for this email. Would you like to acknowledge receiving it?" And then you have to click on "yes" or "no." I'm not sure what happens if you click on "no," I've never tried it because I assume it would lead to more popup windows that would in turn waste more of my time. So I click "yes," which only wastes a few seconds of my time, and I guess with that click Randy gets a little notification that I indeed opened up his goddamn email. Here's the thing. I would prefer if Randy and anyone else who uses this handy little feature give it a rest, immediately. You sent the email, you've got a copy in your "sent" items, your ass is covered. I can only assume that by enabling this function you hope to one day be able to bring me down by proving I got your stupid email and failed to act on it. So I am immediately insulted by the very idea of a receipt notification or whatever it's called. Fuck you. But that's fine, you wanna play office hardball, go ahead and be a dick about it. What REEEEEEALLY bothers me is that you have this activated this feature on ALL your emails, not just the ones that need the other person to respond or take some sort of action. Today I sent somebody an email with some info he requested, and he sent a response. I tried to open the response, got the stupid little notification request popup, clicked "yes," and you know what his email said? "Thanks" That was it. I needed to acknowledge to him that I read that word. Please allow me to lay out a quick guide for when it is appropriate to enable this spectacularly unnecessary Outlook feature. Here is an example of an email in which the sender would be perfectly within his or her rights for requesting an acknowledgment from the recipient saying, "Got it, pal."
There are plenty of other examples. In fact, I am considering adding a page to this site dedicated to "Emails for which a receipt acknowledgment thingie is justified." Feel free to send in an example. In the meantime, please use the above example as a basic guideline for when to attach the little thingie to your emails. Thanks a lot, bro. Hans Bungle *** Whodat (18 points)? * Every time I check, "Dazed and Confused Characters" is one of the Top 10 search phrases that led people to verbungle.com, just because of that dumb list. ** Yes, I know taste is personal and it's stupid to say anyone's taste is "wrong." But sometimes there is no room for debate. For example, the song "King of Wishful Thinking" sucks. You could prove it scientifically if you needed to. So if you like it, well, you're wrong. 7/25/05: Only If You Bring It Back Tomorrow
It takes us back to a time when we still believed all the wonderful lies the world had to tell us. It reminds us that there are some things that we'll never get back. And I'm not just talking about the scooter, people. It makes us wonder: if everybody always says that 18-22 are the best years of your life, why do we look down on people who try to extend that spirit into their 40's? A couple people have mentioned to me that they can't stop looking at it. I feel the same way. There's something so enthusiastic and hopeful about it, I almost can't take it. It's the type of picture they'd show on the news if I went missing. And while the kid in the scooter photo wasn't ever abducted and murdered, I still feel an urge to go back in time, pull him to my chest and squeeze him tight while warning him about what lays ahead. Because he clearly has no idea. The good news is that Brady is uncovering more gems like that every day, which I will share with you as they roll in. All you have to do is punch up www.verbungle.com on your web browser, and you'll be in on the fun. I got another $11 haircut on Saturday, this one from Big Jim Lang's guy. I think his name might be Phil. He doesn't talk much, which is fine with me. I'm willing to banter if necessary but for the most part I'm all business once I sit down in that chair. This particular haircut is real short, possibly the shortest it's been since I asked for "The Civilian" at the naval base barber in San Diego. But I'm ready for August with this shit. At one point when Phil was cutting my hair, a customer sat down in the seat next to Phil's and started gabbing. He even started talking to Silent Phil. "Hey Phil, you got a little Fu Manchu going? What's up with that?" he asked. "I hardly recognize you." "Maybe I don't wanna be recognized," Phil said in his thick Italian accent. With that, we all shared a hearty chortle, which left Phil feeling pretty good about himself. You could see him beaming for a good solid minute. I bet it's been a while since he cracked a good one like that. The truth is it wasn't all that funny. But it was pretty quick for Phil, I'll give him that. Speaking of awkward customer-employee exchanges, I was in the drug store yesterday right before it closed, and there was a guy posted in the doorway letting customers out and making sure new customers didn't get in. I've seen him before, he's sort of the utility man of the place. Wherever you need him, he'll step in and get shit done, like Joe McEwing. He's maybe 45 years old with a worn-out look around his eyes, and like Phil, he speaks with a heavy accent. And there was a customer in there, one of those lonely middle-aged ladies who's completely friendly but talks a little bit too long to everybody she meets. She had already taken an extra minute or two at the checkout counter talking about the weather and clearly she didn't want to leave. But it was time. McEwing opened the door for her to go, but she lingered for a second. "Can I take some of this air conditioning with me?" she asked McEwing as she prepared to step out into the heat. A groaner. McEwing doesn't speak much English at all, so I was stunned when he came up with this gorgeous return of serve: "Only if you bring it back tomorrow." Wow. That wasn't just funny, it was all metaphysical and shit. McEwing gets the Honorary Garry LaBounty* Medal in Customer-Employee relations. May I ask you, whodat? (18 points) Excellent new edition of cW's music column today, complete with empeetreys. And after firing somewhere between 8 and 12 interns, we finally found someone capable of posting the empeetrey for Faith No More's "Midnight Cowboy" Theme, so here it is. * Garry LaBounty was a customer who used to call up the ticket office in Wisconsin all the time. He had all sorts of crazy stories to tell, and he would keep you on the phone for as long as he could when ordering his tickets. His best move, and I can't recall the exact details, was the time he attempted to get better seats on the basis of the fact that he was illiterate. Tough loss for the Yanks tonight. Their bad pitchers are as bad as any pitchers I've ever seen. I have nothing to say today, really. Except for one very important announcement. Brady has located, scanned, and delivered the long-thought-lost picture of me sitting on my moped in 1990*. So let's have a look:
Now let's do a little cold case detective work and analyze the series of crimes that are committed in this shot. 1) The sunglasses - I've asserted several times over the years that I've never owned a pair of fancy sunglasses. I think they're sort of a waste of money, especially for someone as irresponsible as me who is likely to lose them or sit on them or have them fly off my head in a terrifying moped-racing accident. THAT SAID, this particular pair of sunglasses is WAY more offensive than any other pair I've ever owned, including my Green Bay Packers shades with the fluorescent green legs. Like those, this pair here had to be a freebie. In fact, they look like maybe somebody's grandma left them in our apartment and I happened to grab them on the way out the door because I needed something to protect my eyes as I cut through the wind at speeds exceeding 32 mph (on a downhill). However, the fact that I not only left them on for the photo but actually look excited to be posing in them does pretty well convict me of a serious breach of taste. 2) How skinny I was - and to think, this picture was snapped at a moment in history when Mike D. Hunt was already ribbing me about being pudgy. I've put on a good 30 pounds since then. Guess I showed him! 3) The hair - what the fuck? Really. What the fuckity fuck? 4) The earnest pose - it breaks my heart. 5) The jacket - I owned and wore that Seinfeldish blue jacket for a good 10 years. I actually miss it. It was so soft and cottony. And it got me through the horrible winter of 1996. I had no winter coat so I wore that thing with a nice hooded sweatshirt underneath it and survived. Goal for this summer: get me a new one. 6) Dude, Marty McFly called from 1985 - he wants his white Nikes back. 7) Two of those cars belonged to the girls who lived in the apartment beneath us, with our roommate Rob D.'s tan Family Camry all the way in the back of the shot. There were at least two totally cute girls out of the five who lived downstairs, but not one of my four roommates nor I ever laid a finger on 'em. They were way cooler than we were. And I think I pissed them off when I went downstairs the day after one of our (ten) rock 'em sock 'em keg parties and (wrongly) accused them of stealing my Bruce Springsteen Live CD's. What a sad move on my part. 8) I like how I am trying to look a little bit sexy and dangerous sitting atop a black moped with pink trim. Like I'm about to go peeling out of there and tear off down Rebel Highway. With the kickstand down and the Kryptonite lock still around the back wheel. 9) You can see Little Scotty F.'s red Honda scooter on the left. His topped out at 30 mph, a good 2 mph slower than mine. But he would totally blow me off the line at traffic lights because my scooter had zero pickup, as hard as that is to believe by looking at it. His was a model from the previous year and it was much nicer and more substantial-feeling than mine. But I did have the under-the-seat storage compartment. 10) As much as this picture may provide stark proof that things in 1990 were every bit as lame as they are now, if not more, I'd still like to go back for like a week. For instance, I wonder where I was off to that day. If I had to guess, I was probably headed to my job at the Athletic Ticket Office. Maybe stop at Taco John's on the way for a couple soft shells, a Mr. Pibb, and some Potato Ole's, (which would be on the house if future WMAD Program Director Pat Frawley was working the fryer). Pat always hooked us up, even when we were drunk and belligerent and there were 25 people ahead of us on line. Good man. I wonder -- if that 20 year-old idiot in the picture could see the 35 year-old idiot I've become, if he'd be proud of me. I mean, at first he'd probably be pissed at me for making fun of him, but once he calmed down, I wonder if we'd see eye to eye. I'd be all up in his business trying to steer him in the right direction, and he'd be like, Fuck you, Fatso**, I wanna get drunk and piss on a hot grill to see what happens. Yeah, I don't think I'd like him very much at all. He's a dick on a moped. Let him figure it out for himself. My apologies to all those he encounters along the way. Whodat (7 points)?
*As well as several others that may be posted soon.
"This year is kinda lame," you'd say. "I miss 1989. 1989 was the shit." And you'd be right. 1989 was probably the shit. Ask anybody, except someone living in 1989. They'd tell you 1980 was a million times more dope. But me, I'd settle for some nice thick 1993 if that was all that was on the menu. In fact I think I'd prefer it. 1993 was probably one of the 3 most pivotal years in my life. If I did a top 20, it'd go something like this (listed with one or two key events from that year, although perhaps not THE key event**):
1985 (flunk out of high school) I left out a ton of shit that I will kick myself for tomorrow, I'm sure. 1993 was a particularly interesting year for me. You know how sometimes you watch an old episode of Seinfeld, and you find yourself amazed that like three of the most famous and incessantly referenced Seinfeld plotlines all take place in 1 episode? And you're like, wow, I remember all these stories, but I remember them as complete shows, not subplots? And furthermore, how the hell can they jam all that into one 30-minute episode? That's how 1993 was for me. So many things happened, it seems like every day must have contained at least one moment of significance. It's hard to believe, but 1993 must've featured plenty of days where I just went to work, drank a Snapple, punched out and spent the evening watching TV on the futon.
I bet if you looked it up, 1993 was like 852 days long. Whodat for 8.5 points? I hope that's not a repeat. That would be a bad sign.
* Except, obviously, the birth of my beautiful baby, who actually smiled at me
today. It wasn't so much a smile of happiness or recognition as it was a smile
of "Who the fuck are you?" So maybe it's not an official smile. But I'll take
it. 7/19/05: The History of Railroads Fuckin' A. Remember the PBdotC? Just Sayin'. You know what blog is really growing on me? That Oak Park Mastermind. What do I like about it? I like that it's raw and it's funny as hell and she truly does not give one shit what you think of her. You are perfectly within reason for disagreeing with me. In fact, I can see some of you shaking your head and muttering, "What on earth is he talking about?" But I like that shit. I think she's sorta fearless in her own twisted way. I wish I had a little more of that fearlessness, the willingness to say the most fucked up things that cross your mind and not worry about the fallout. You could argue that she's just going for basic shock value with some of her more outrageous stuff, but as Valsmal pointed out to me the other day, shock value wears out and then you have to have something worthwhile left or people won't keep coming back. And I keep coming back, because of her wit and her honesty. If I were the type of man to use such a ridiculous and played-out expression, I'd say she's keeping it real. Speaking of keepin' it rill, America's Top Blogger Tony Pierce had a post the other day in which he called out the biters and fakers who have aped him over the years and, in an admittedly bitchy moment of insecurity, demanded his due place on their blogrolls. While I can't personally stomach the term "blogroll," I've certainly stolen an idea or two from him over the years, such as posting at least one picture every day. So here is a special moment of props to the always inventive and readable TP. Moment. Back to work. In yesterday's post I talked about visiting my "late Uncle Dave." It occurred to me later that maybe that wasn't the proper use of the term "late." I mean, he was still alive when we visited him, so I think calling him "late" may have been premature. Maybe I should have typed "since deceased" or just written a little (R.I.P.) after his name. We won't let this happen again. It's been two weeks, and here's one thing I've learned about infants: they just don't get it. No sense of timing, totally inconsiderate, selfish. Clueless. I was watching "Mantle" on HBO the other day, and it was pretty fascinating. I mean, there wasn't anything in there I hadn't heard before, but the guy is such a wonderful Paul Bunyan-like figure that I gobble it up each time. Just watching him run is enough. If they had a channel that showed Mickey Mantle chasing down fly balls in Death Valley 24 hours a day, I would tune in to that shit at least three times a week for an hour at a time. That said, I need to hear Bob Costas and Billy Crystal waxing poetic about the Mick again like I need another endemic goiter. These two assholes act like they were his only fans, like they are the official protectors of his legacy. What a couple of putzoids. Costas in particular -- it's gotten to the point for me now where I just hear his voice and I break into a cold sweat. It's like my body shuts down all its systems and dedicates all its resources to keeping me calm and preventing me from having a violent episode. But the rest of the special was good. To me, the most amazing thing was some amateur poolside film footage of Billy Martin with no shirt on. Motherfucker was ripped. He was one wiry, scrappy little bastard. Like my freshman year roommate Brian O., he's pretty much the last guy in the room you'd wanna tangle with. You could rip off half his face and he'd still be all over you like a Rottweiler. There's just no way to beat guys like that. In fact, seeing him on this special made me think that if the Yankee bench had let them go at it that day in '77 when Billy replaced Reggie in RF, it might have gotten interesting. Of course, by that time Billy's body had been quite thoroughly ravaged by the delicious alcohol, so Reggie may well have throttled him to death. But Billy Martin 1956 vs. Reggie Jackson 1977? I'm not betting against Billy. I bet those guys had some fun in the 50's -- Whitey and Mickey and Billy and company. It's almost cooler that Billy was only a .257 hitter. It showed the kind of chutzpah he had that he was right in the middle of all those guys acting like a superstar. And I think they all respected him. His grandma reportedly instilled one lesson in him: "Never take shit from nobody."
Back to Mantle for a sec -- I met him once. In 1978, he and Hank Aaron and Tom Gorman, a veteran big league umpire, were on the Dick Cavett show. My pops had connections there and he arranged for me and my friend John Bentham to go to the taping. We really wanted to meet Aaron, although we were also psyched for Mantle. Gorman, not so much. Anyway, in the days before we went to the taping we were bragging to all our classmates that we were going to meet Hank Aaron and Mickey Mantle. Being 9 year-old idiots, we went so far as to promise about fifteen kids that we would get autographs for them from Aaron AND Mantle. Of course, right after the taping Aaron had to catch a flight, so we missed out on him altogether. We did meet Mantle, and he patted me on the head and gave each of us an autograph. Even to us, it was immediately obvious that asking for more than those two autographs would have been highly inappropriate. So we went home that day and spent hours trying to mimic Mantle's signature for the rest of the kids. Eventually we gave up and told them the truth. I kept Mantle's autograph in my sock drawer for a couple of years, and then lost it. Sad. I still have Bernard King's autograph, though. You don't. Thanks to cW for some truly inspired posts, complete with empeetreys. I hope y'all are taking advantage, cuz I won't leave 'em up forever. And it wouldn't hurt to leave a word or two of thanks so he knows you appreciate it. Otherwise, the free songs will dry up. Same goes for Benge's MC list, which has been updated with a couple more empeetreys today. Get 'em while they're hot. I also want to announce another fine new feature on the site. D. Lee has been weighing in with various basketball-related items for quite some time now, so we figure why not give him his own official space? That's what we've finally done, and we've got a fresh edition of The Open Man.* I drank two cups of coffee today and I feel like I may have suffered a minor heart attack. I gotta be careful. Whodat (8 points)? * Got a better name suggestion? Come on with it, then. 7/18/05: Again with the shirts
We're going green for a while. Deal with it. Shirt Update: Crsmal, to answer your question, no, I was not wearing my trusty long sleeve T-shirt on Thursday when the lady insulted me. And I chickened out and decided against wearing a longie on Friday, when I stopped by her office to take care of some paperwork. I wore a yellow button down shirt instead. Still sore from Thursday's remark, I felt the need to clear things up. "So, you know, you really stung me when you insulted my shirt yesterday," I said. All I really wanted out of her was a "Oh, come on, I was just kidding, you know that!" although I would have accepted a full-scale apology as well. Even though I enjoy making fun of others, I am extremely sensitive when the barbs start heading my way. I'm often unable to tell if someone is just having a good-natured laugh or if they really mean it. So this follow-up meeting was important to me. "Oh, that shirt yesterday was awful," she said. "You don't need to be wearing stuff like that." "Wow. So you're not retracting the statement, you're just reasserting it?" I said. "Yeah that was a bad shirt," she said. "But this one today, this is worse. This is really bad. Yesterday's was OK compared to this." SHE DID IT AGAIN! It's not like I'm trying to look cool or fashionable, wearing really outrageous, trendy shirts to try to draw attention to myself. I'm just a schmuck trying to show up for work in a decent-lookin' work shirt. I'm not asking for feedback. I'm not interested in where I sit in the office fashion hierarchy. Just leave me and my stupid shirts alone. Thank you. *** After the Yankees beat the Red Sox in game 1 of this four game series, I experienced a teeny quiver of excitement. And then on Friday a colleague and fellow Yankee fan stopped by my desk to discuss that night's pitching matchup. And I realized that the Yankees are simply not going to make the postseason this year. Not with guys like this taking the hill in a critical game against Boston. Nothing against that particular dude; he just isn't so good at the whole baseball thing. That said, I like the risk-free Leiter addition and I'm glad to see the bats starting to percolate. And as bad as Tino and Bernie have looked at times, I like this lineup:
Jeter SS Bench: Womack, Sierra, Flaherty, etc. That's it, I don't want to hear any more about it. If you leave those old dudes in there for a while, they'll start to hit. Work the new guys in slowly. It was a satisfying series against Boston, but it's gonna be an uphill climb unless Kevin "Bus Outta Town" Brown shows us he's more than just Satan's Nephew. Tonight's game was marred only slightly by Joe Morgan's preaching. I think maybe Morgan read this spot-on critique (courtesy Adam R.) of his broadcast work, and toned it down a little. The article perfectly captures Morgan, IMO. As a player, he was one of my favorites, a pleasure to watch. As an announcer...well, he was a hell of a player. *** Porno actress name that came to me over the weekend: Anna "Cornhole" Kova. Or should it be just Anna Cornhole Kova? Or Anna Cornholekova? I dunno. *** I ate at Ray's Pizza this weekend. Yeah, that Ray's Pizza. Famous Ray's on 11th and 6th, for those who think their Ray's Pizza is in any way significant. When I was a wee pup at P.S. 41, we all spoke of Ray's with reverence, as if it was The Pizza By Which All Others Shall Be Judged. Going out to lunch in 3rd grade and sinking your rotten eight-year-old teeth into a thick cheesy slice of Ray's Pizza was the height of pleasure, replaced a few year's later by the discovery of Channel J. This weekend, as in 1977, Ray's work was dripping in grease and the cheese layer was over half an inch thick. In 1977, this seemed like a fine idea; I even remember some kids ordering "extra cheese." In 2005, it's mighty gross. Although I did eat my entire slice and I did guzzle down a large Coke, I was left wondering what was so great about Ray's Pizza in the first place. The experience made me realize it's just another one of those myths we all build up for ourselves -- we think our car is better than the neighbors', our sports teams are better than yours, our pizza is the best in town. I guess we do it to reassure ourselves that our lives are not nearly as empty and mundane as they might feel; things are actually rather grand. I remember visiting my late Uncle Dave in Chicago in 1980, and as soon as he picked us up at the airport he started holding forth about this new treat they have at Dunkin' Donuts, the Buttermilk Bar. He kept going on and on about it, and how lucky we all were that we'd soon have a chance to taste it. It's possible that NYC didn't have Dunkin' Donuts yet in 1980, but whatever the case, we DEFINITELY didn't have the Buttermilk Bar. "Wait 'til you kids try these Buttermilk Bars," he kept saying. "You'll be stuffing 'em." And after we tried them and discovered they were basically just nasty donut-like cakes with a crusty sugar glaze on top, we DID stuff 'em -- into the pockets of our down jackets so we wouldn't insult poor Uncle Dave by throwing them in the garbage right in front of him. Even then we had the good sense to understand that when a man builds up the things that are immediately available to him into something more than they really are, he should be left alone to sit in the little world that he's created. Sit there in peace with all the great things he imagines he's surrounded by. Once enough time has passed, he'll realize the truth. And his world will seem a little less special. No sense rushing into that. I realized the truth about Ray's Pizza this weekend. It gets a 17.4 on the VRS. *** I went outside for about ten minutes on Saturday and shot a few buckets, by myself, for the first time in weeks. I felt 50 and I bet I looked 60 to the casual observer. I'd miss a little set shot and the ball would bounce away from me, and I'd shuffle gingerly after it like...a dad. I'm a dad. I run like a dad. I shoot like a dad. Maybe I can learn to set picks. Dads should be good at that. I should mention that the Stuyvesant Town baskets are incredibly forgiving. Glass backboards that are nice and dead, like the old goal on the Western end of the Houston Street Court, where I learned to shoot a bank shot before I learned to do much of anything else on a basketball court. And the rims here are so loose that they suck in just about anything you throw up there. A far cry from the fan backboards and stiff rims I remember from my days spent skipping class here in the 80's. Whodat, ya punks (8 points)? More good stuff from cW this fine and lovely Monday, and Benge has updated his list with a few tasty empeetreys for ya.
Me, I got next to nothing. I was in a meeting today with three colleagues, two men and a woman. As we were leaving the meeting, the woman sincerely complimented both the other guys on their nice shirts. Then she turned to me, realizing that I hadn't been in on the compliment, and said, "You -- you need to do better than that." Then she took a closer look and said it again. Like she felt obligated to say SOMETHING after praising the other dudes, but couldn't just give me a nice fake compliment. And it was like my nicest shirt. That really hurt my feelings. I have to admit I am impressed as hell with Michelle Wie. Someone should be making a prediction about her right about now. Big win for the Yanks over the Sox tonight, one of those games that you look back on and think "turning point" if you end up winning the division. A lot of work to be done, though, and now we'll have to do it without our Wang. I've watched every episode of "Hell's Kitchen," but I'm not proud of it at all. This is the busiest I've ever been in my life. Come to think of it, as far as I can recall I've never been busy --even a little bit -- before this. I think I prefer being un-busy. I like having a kid and all, but I'm ready to play some basketball whenever the opportunity arises. I remember in like 1997 when I was still a reasonable semblance of myself, I wondered: if I quit work and got sponsored by Gatorade or something, could I train myself to dunk? I was about 27 years old, and I thought maybe if all I did all day was work out and do jumping exercises, if my life's mission became the quest for one clean dunk on a ten foot rim, I could do it. I never got around to it. I think it might be too late now. On the other hand, it's been a while since I've emailed my pals at Gatorade. Whodat (5 points)?
I thank you both for your contributions. Although PB, you better concentrate your efforts on the genius board today. Joe M. came through with Mungo Jerry late in the day to move within 22 points of the title. We are changing Mr. W's temporary column name because the other one didn't make as much sense as I thought it did when I chose it at 3:57 a.m. last night. We still demand more suggestions from you people. For now, it shall simply be called cW's Soundboard. I want to clear one thing up: I was recently accused of harboring a bias against short people. This stung me badly, as nothing could be further from the truth. Allow me to recite a line from the official Verbungle.com Code of Ethics: Rule 29.7 (g): It shall be understood by all employees of Verbungle.com that your employment is contingent on your willingness to fully embrace the Official Verbungle.com Philosophy of Equality: all people, even short little weird people, are equally worthy of your respect and should be afforded it. Again, we would like to reiterate that this DOES include short little freaky people. So I think you can see that we have covered our bases and do not discriminate in any way. Short people, I love you with open arms. Whodat (8 points)? Not much else today, how about we do a "post from the past," from a year ago today: 7/14/04: Let the backlash begin I was thinking about that bitch who insulted me in the elevator the other day, and how so many moments go by in life where someone shits on you without cause, and you don't adequately respond for whatever reason. Often it's a matter of timing -- the elevator arrives at your floor just as you're clearing your throat and mentally assembling the perfect return of serve. So you just get out, and the asshole keeps riding all the way up to the top floor. And you convince yourself that what comes around goes around and eventually she'll get hers and all those other comforting clichés that make such sense when you end up on the losing end in life and have no answer. Deep in your heart, you know that it might be years, if ever, before something proportionately shitty befalls the motherfucker in question. But you really don't have a lot of options outside of willing bad things their way. So that's what you do: you just move on, unless you are a psycho, in which case you plot revenge. I think Elevator Hag is in deep need of a little revenge. Nothing too serious, but if I am ever on the elevator with her again and there are no strangers around, I will say something obnoxious or perhaps fart in her presence while staring her down. I hope her henpecked scrub of a husband is there, too, to soak in my foul emissions. I am open to suggestions. I watched with a combination of nausea
and disbelief the non-stop Clemens parade at the all-star game tonight.
When will Baseball stop overestimating the emotional connection between
Clemens and the public? My opinion: fans in Boston loathe him.
Fans in New York and Toronto are deeply indifferent towards him. In
fact, I cannot recall an athlete (besides Clemens) performing at such a high level for so
long (and make no mistake, he is one of the greatest athletes any of us
has ever seen)
Another thing about Clemens: he may be the best pitcher of all time (I say not quite), but he's never been for one instant the guy you'd want on the mound with all your verbungle.com shares, or your mother's heart pills, or the World Series, on the line. He's had some great clutch performances over the years, but he's also fucked up and melted down just as often. And because he's so emotionally distant, it's hard to feel sorry for the prick when he shits the bed. The wife is going to Toronto tomorrow. At 12:35 am, I went down to our local Duane to pick her up a travel toothpaste thingy. As I left the building, I heard the unmistakable throbbing beat of "Do a Little Dance, Make a Little Love, Get Down Tonight." I looked across the street and saw an SUV with both doors flung open, music blasting out, two guys standing around and a blond dancing in drunken circles on the sidewalk. Now you might just dismiss this group with a wave of the hand and a muttering something like "Assholes." And I won't argue with you on that; the evidence supports it. But I still felt a certain sense of wistful appreciation for them. Out rocking on a Tuesday night, turning their Cherokee into a disco and sucking every last drop of pleasure out of their buzz. One of the guys kept nervously saying, "OK, that's enough. Let's go." I'm guessing it was his car. I'm also speculating (and hoping) that he was the most sober of the three. I'd like to think that the three of them had gone out for a beer after work, and that beer showed up with some friends, and all of a sudden it was 11 o'clock and both guys had designs on hooking up with the lady. One guy was the obvious choice, sparks were flying, and the other guy was just taking up space; even a dead man could see that. But Bachelor #2 just kept hanging in there, like an overmatched prizefighter who doesn't have the good sense to go down. As the night played out, whatever chemistry the two lovebirds had has given way to the stubborn perseverance of Bachelor #2. I bet he's the one with the wheels, too. It looks like he's going to be here all night, screwing things up for the other two. The blond just wants to dance now. The guy who should rightly be making out with her (a move they'd both regret almost instantly) is now just another player, standing around on West 72nd street and nodding his head to the beat. He's still got hope, but things aren't adding up the way they were an hour ago. So he'll wait. They'll all wait. And it's only 12:35 am in New York City -- maybe something will happen yet. Two of the three will end up knowing; it'll be their secret. Awkward eye contact at the water cooler. Emails sent to straighten it all out, clarifying where things stand. But that's for another day. Right now it's time for patience. And disco dancing. I think it's also time to officially launch the backlash against Dan K. First he writes the softball recap, and does such a good job that people are basically lining up to blow him, and then he answers the lyric bustah as well. I'm officially sick of him, and I intend to take him out at second next week if he's within 20 feet of the base. Fucker. He claims to have purchased a piece of verbungle merch., and if so, I forgive him. Spiderman has come a long way since his Electric Company Days. (beware, possible audio). I was just thinking about how remarkably well I'm aging. I mean, I'd like to lose some weight, I've gotten quite a bit uglier over the years, and my brain seems to be slipping a little. I don't smell as fresh as I once did. But I have almost all my hair and I can still run around and play ball every night. I got no damn complaints about nothing. Okay, this is a risky thing to say, and I might very well go back on it, but here goes: if the Yankees acquire Randy Johnson for the stretch drive/postseason, i will renounce my fandom (fanship?) as it applies to the New York Yankees baseball club. It just wouldn't be right to pull for this behemoth. Not to say they'll necessarily win, but rooting for them goes against all decent human instincts. I'll always support the core guys, but I will not call myself a Yankee fan again for the calendar year 2004.* Enough is enough. I know, enough was already enough. But I can only turn the other way for so long. After the season, I will re-evaluate all of this stuff. * - if you stumble across some free tickets to a game, I will certainly accompany you and act for all intents and purposes like a Yankee fan for the evening. Thanks very much, I appreciate it. This is one of those days that's a perfect example of how this here website is supposed to work. I come home from work tired. I have nothing to say. I consider posting an item I started a couple of weeks ago that simply failed to work. It was the internal monologue of a zoo-bound polar bear as a little boy stared in at the bear from behind a fence, and we thought maybe verbungle-reading members of the acting community could bust it out at their next auditions. But upon re-reading it, the thing was so bad we decide against it. It was just deathly awful, like being seated between Michael Kay and Mike Francesa at a dinner party. That brings up a question, if I have something set aside that was intended for the bungle, but it fails to meet even our loose standards of quality, should I publish it anyway? Would you rather have an extremely low-quality edition of verbungle than no edition at all? And do we as publishers of the site care enough about our own credibility to keep the really bad stuff away from you? Good questions, and worth thinking about someday. But none of that helps me today. I find myself staring at a blank computer screen and waiting for inspiration to come. Nothing. Just some mild indigestion. I head out for a quick sponge bath at Leonard's Sponge Bath Hut on 17th and 2nd, hoping the combination of the gentle suds and Leonard's assured touch will wring something out of me. Indeed it does, but it's not something I can translate into text. I come home and there's still nothing. I begin performing small-scale torture techniques on myself, thinking maybe I will collapse under pressure and unleash a torrent of wild and beautiful thoughts that I've kept buried up to now to spare the reputations of my colleagues and co-conspirators. All I end up with is ten toes without nails and a face horribly and permanently disfigured by acid. I'm at the end of my rope. Then an email comes in. It's from Van Lingle Bungle, my 3rd cousin and the head of our Business Affairs Department. He reports that after weeks of bitter negotiations, we have finally crossed the t's and the f's and dotted the i's and j's on a contract with cW, a gifted freelance journalist located on America's lush and beautiful West Coast. cW is a trusted friend and a wholly entertaining writer, and we're honored to have him aboard, even if his outrageous salary demands have swollen our editorial budget so severely I'm holding a T-bone steak over it right now. If you know cW, and if you post in online Dutch bondage forums you probably do, you know that he is as passionate about music as Wade Boggs is about chicken. Take away cW's music and you may as well be removing all the highlighted copies of Dianetics from Tom Cruise's underground lair. So we are excited to see that he is leaning in the direction of dedicating his column to music. We certainly don't want to limit him to that, especially as he has thousands of wonderful stories to tell about every subject under the California sun. But we do think that the prospect of a talented writer letting loose about a topic that burns deep within his German soul is something worth getting excited about.
Here are cW's preliminary thoughts about his column:
Boss- I wholeheartedly agree about the term "blog", although I've sort of given up that fight. But I do think a column this strong needs a name to match. So I hereby open it up to the verbungle-reading public. Send in your suggestions, and we (or maybe cW) will pick one as the winner. We were going to award some genius points for the winner, but I think the race is simply too tight right now for it to come down to anything subjective. So instead you will merely receive the honor of coming up with the winning title, and $1 in cash. In the meantime, we will give it a placeholder name. And since I am still Editor-in-Grief of this here website, I am going to hit it with a small dash of Replacements. Paul Westerberg gives you a lot of options. I considered "Bacon and a Cigarette" and "Bring Your Own Lampshade" or the painfully obvious but quite appropriate "Left of the Dial." We thought of "Bastards of Bung" and "Here Comes a Regular" and "Favorite Thing" and "What's that Song?" and even "Nightclub Jitters." Then we realized that we were wasting all too much time in coming up with a temporary name for the column. Here then, is the initial entry of "Definitely Not L.A." from cW. I thank him and I thank everyone else who has sent in contributions over the years. Whodat (9 points)? If you want the polar bear monologue, let me hear ya say, "Polar Bear." 7/12/5: Andy Rooney Outtakes, 1986-Present (Editor's Note: Most of this post was created on Sunday Night, intended for you to enjoy on Monday morning. But I got tuckered out and couldn't publish it. Still, you should read it as if it's Monday morning right now. Grab a cup of coffee, try to feel anxious and daydreamy at the same time, etc. Thanks.)
I But I'd really like to have a nice pair of the 1987 Xavier McDaniel Spot-Bilt basketball shoes in Sonics Green if somebody can get their hands on 'em. I am on baby duty right now. I just went into her room to check on her, and when I looked into the crib I was like, "Holy Shit! That's a BABY!" I have a baby. Wow. I like how the YES Network flunkies are severely over-touting every prospect the Yankees bring up from the farm, as if they have a responsibility to create good buzz about these kids in order to boost their trade value. The other day I heard Kay going on and on about this kid Cabrera they have in centerfield, talking about how the Yankees may have solved their centerfield problem blah blah blah. Meanwhile, the only hits I've seen him get are bloopers and dinks, and otherwise he's looked completely overmatched at the plate. He also seems lost in centerfield, although I realize he's only 20 and he'll get better. Still, with him and Cano and Wang, the announcers are acting like this is Pettitte-Rivera-Jeter-Posada all over again. Cano and Wang have been impressive, but neither of them look like surefire all-stars to me. Let's give it some time. I think Giambi may be back, though. It would be a nice story, I suppose. You know what's a reeeeally stupid concept? Edible flowers. Have you ever looked at somebody's flowers and been all, "My, those are beautiful flowers. Do you mind if I eat one?" No, you haven't. And even the ones that are sold as edible can't taste all that good. The reaction upon eating one is likely, "Wow, you weren't lying, those are indeed edible." It's never, "Holy Cow, those are delicious flowers. Can I have another?" Back to work tomorrow after a wonderful week off with wife and baby. I have severe 6th Grade Sunday night anxiety going. But it was worth it for the amazing time spent with my new family. Another nice thing about this week was getting a chance to see my beaucoup supertight college amigo Brian C., in town from Michigan. He was here for the week on business. This fall, if all goes well, he will become a college professor. I would never have guessed it that day sophomore year at Wisconsin when the two of us blew off our comp lit discussion section and hung out on the swing set by Walgreens instead. I wish him well, he is one of my all-time favorite people and will one day receiving his own Profile in Dignity. It will include the story of how he told the loudmouth racist dudes to shut the fuck up. Heroic. In the meantime, here is the second in that series, which consists of mini-biographies of regular folk who've done me right through the years: Profiles in Dignity #2: Little Scotty F. Well, my transition to the new phone service is almost complete. So far, Cingular has been solid, although I do have a couple of complaints. One, my new phone is a bit of a craperoo compared to the one I had with Sprint. I figured the kids at Nokia would be way ahead of the game in terms of user interfaces and cool features and intuitive, logical menus and stuff like that. But nah, it turns they're a bit whack when it comes to all that, if my $19.99 phone is any indication. I just need to keep reminding myself that I got this phone for clear conversations, and so far it's given me that -- way more than the Sprint phone ever did. The only other thing that's bothering me if that somehow we've already racked up like 65 roaming minutes on the phones, which is kinda ridiculous because we haven't left the borough of Manhattan with the damn things and we haven't received any signals telling us we were going into roaming territory. I'ma have a word with these folks Monday and straighten it out. If they give me attitude, I still have like a week or two of negotiation time left before my Sprint phone goes officially poopoocaca, so I might need to throw Cingular a few threatening elbows to make them see things my way. I've now had two functioning cell phones for like two weeks, which has allowed me to fulfill my fantasy of being the dickhead talking on the cellphone, getting a call on his other cellphone, telling the first person to hang on, picking up the second cellphone, and having two sort-of conversations at the same time. It actually happened one day, and it was great. As I was coming home from the Chelsea Whole Foods Sunday evening (and there was an excellent customer-clerk run-in while I was there*), I saw some poor peckerheads running on treadmills in the gym above Best Buy on 23rd and 6th. On a perfectly good Sunday afternoon. And it occurred to me, has there ever been an invention that better symbolizes the futility of humankind than the treadmill? All this sweating and flailing about, and we never really take a single step forward. Who would invent such a cruel device? I also think it would be interesting to conduct a study regarding the effectiveness of treadmills. Imagine if every hour spent on the treadmill only added like 45 minutes to your life? That would be awesome. * The customer, who was one of the biggest assholes you'll ever meet and had just imposed himself on the front of the line, was completely in the wrong. After he turned and walked away, the clerk and the rest of us on line all kind of laughed and made sarcastic comments about him, assuming he was out of earshot. But he overheard and came sprinting back to the counter, practically jumping over it to get at the clerk, and then yelled, "You can't laugh at me!" To which one of the guys on line said right to his face, "I'm laughing at you." Nutboy then demanded to see the manager, and I don't think he got any relief, because he was so clearly a frothing loon. (Editor's note: That's where we left off. We just have one final thought to add here on Monday night.) Unbearable Chris Berman continuing to get decent assignments is a complete mystery to me. He's still completely trapped in the 80's, with his Fletch-like sense of humor and his completely outdated frame of reference. Tonight I do believe he actually started touting his favorite nickname he had ever bestowed, Oddibe "Young Again" McDowell. Sheesh. Listening to him made me want to bust out my Harold Faltermeyer records. Thanks. Notes: Dan K., for the GISG, I wish I could say I don't put it in quotes or I do put it in quotes. But the truth is sometimes I do and sometimes I don't. So you gotta check both ways. Although "Salt Lake" turned up under both within the first two pages for me...and Pete B., have no fear, I think we all knew your boo-ya was somewhat ironic. For five points each, whodat and wheredat? Let's all wear long-sleeve T-shirts to work this Friday. 7/9/5: Too Much Burger and Not Enough Kid
Actually, that's probably not an accurate statement. But that guy did yell "Boo-Ya" after every shot. I'll never forget it. I was flipping through the late night channels tonight and I came across the Cardinals-Giants game on one of the INHD channels. First of all, I love listening to the local announcing crews from other cities. No Michael Kay assaulting your ears with Yankee arrogance. This was the Giants' crew, and they had that sarcastic banter going that finds its way into the booth when a team is out of the race by July 8th. At one point, the camera picked up a girl in the crowd, maybe 10 years old, eating a cheeseburger that must have originally been as big as her head. That sentence reminds me of delicious La Bamba Burritos in Madison and Chicago, advertised as "Burritos as big as your head." I would estimate I've eaten about 70 La Bamba burritos in my life, and out of those 70, I only recall about 47. The others were burritos that I ate in such a state of alcoholic disrepair that I don't recall eating them at all. The only way we know for sure that I ate them is from doing some quick forensic work the next day. Salsa on the undershirt, an aluminum foil wrapper on the coffee table, intense gastrointestinal distress until about 9 pm the next evening -- these are all telltale signs of burrito abuse that can help you extrapolate your burrito consumption from the night before. Pain or no pain, I could go for a La Bamba burrito right now. I bet Brady is eating one right as I type this at 2:35 am Eastern Time. The lucky bastard. Then tomorrow when he wakes up with a fierce pain in his gut, he can head over to Potbelly Subs to get back on track. Chicago sounds pretty good right now. Anyway, back to the game. They showed this poor little girl and I thought, that burger is just huuuuge. And then they cut back to her a minute later and the announcer's like, "That looks like too much burger and not enough kid." Then they went back to her like four more times, each announcer thinking no way she could eat that whole thing. But sure enough, she did. God Bless America. We can sure pound us down some burgers. In order to keep the genius hunt going a bit longer, which will in turn force me to keep publishing the site, I think I'ma lower the point values for some of the upcoming entries. For instance, whodat (7 points) and whodat (3 points, hint: it's not Marshall Faulk)?
The long-sleeved T-shirt is easily my favorite article of clothing of all-time. I own about 8; I would wear one every day for the rest of my life if I could. If it's 85 degrees outside, you're still OK in the long-sleeve T. And if it's 57, the longie will take care of you way better than a shortie. You can wear it to a bar, a party, or a touch football game. You should definitely wear it to a barbecue. You can probably wear it to work assuming you're making less than $100K a year. I need to drop a few pounds before I start wearing the long-sleever T's out on the town. I really need to lose a few pounds, period. Losing a bunch would be even better. It always pisses me off when I watch some movie from 1952, and it's got Kirk Douglas or somebody in it, and he's built like a tank. He was probably eating two steaks a night and washing 'em down with a quart of mashed potatoes and a six pack of Bud, and he still looked like he could beat up four guys in a bar fight. Not an ounce of fat on him. Here I am in 2005, with twenty times more information available on nutrition and exercise, but still I find myself slowly chubbing out into infinity. Although I have made some progress. Now after I scarf down an entire bag of cheese puffs, I wash the orange bits off my hands instead of licking my fingers clean. I heard from Greg W. today that he recently hosted an Extravaganza at his East Village Apartment. Lord, I do miss the Extravaganzas. For the uninitiated, an Extravaganza is what happens when you go out to the bar, get your drunk on, and all of a sudden it's 4:30 am and you're not ready to go home yet. So you stop at the dirty deli, pick up some cold sixers of cheap domestic cans, and then you head back to Casa de Weber for some tune-blarin', picture takin', ass-shakin', along-singin', and general misbehavin'. There's nothing funner than a well-executed Extravaganza, and there's also nothing that will fill you with more remorse the next day. But it's worth it. Most things that leave you remorseful are worth it. I haven't been drinking the beer at all lately, what with the arrival of our lovely baby. I was at the supermarket today and I walked by that refrigerated beer case, the one that used to only have six packs of Bud, Bud Light, Heineken and Corona. They've added Amstel Light and they have a decent selection of 40's. When I walked by the case today it was making that unmistakable humming/vibrating sound that indicates an old fridge in need of service that it will probably never get. It sounded beautiful, like the beers were all singing out to me in unison. But I kept walking. And I will continue to keep walking. I'll still have a beer if I go out to eat, or maybe one or two when I'm watching the game, but I do believe my Extravaganza days are done. The race to geniushood has never been tighter. The artist formerly known as PB dot C came through with Rio on yesterday's wheredat, tying Joe Monkeyweb with 201 points. And there are still a few others within striking distance. It should be a great finish. For now, tell me whodat (18 points) and also here is a GISG (10 points). This site brought a smile. (via Metafilter) 7/7/5: Get Busy Livin' Or Get Busy Dyin' You know that feeling when you're reading a good book and you suddenly find yourself emotionally invested in the characters? And you start tearing through the book, totally caught up in it, wondering what's going to happen to everyone? And then sometimes, depending on the book, you reach a point where you squeeze the remaining pages between your fingers and realize that there simply isn't enough book left to wrap up the story in a way that's going to satisfy you. I was just reading Little Children, the latest book by Tom Perrotta, and that happened to me. I didn't absolutely love love love the book, but I like like liked it quite a bit. Maybe a 22.3 on the VRS. And then with about ten or fifteen pages left, I realized I was going to be disappointed by the ending. There just weren't enough pages left to address the lives of all the characters in a way that was going to make me happy. And sure enough, although the last three or four pages are really, really, good -- albeit in kind of a showboaty way -- they don't wipe away the sense that he took the characters as far as he could and then just sort of gave up. And wrapped it up as neatly and quickly as possible. Which, perhaps, was intentional -- maybe in doing so he was making a statement about all of us, how we inevitably take the easy way out. Whatever the case, I expected more from him. Still a good read though.
And that got me to thinking, almost everybody I know lives life as if there are endless unwritten pages ahead of them. And I guess that makes sense; you probably shouldn't spend too much time worrying about that final day or you'll lose sight of all the wonderful days that get you there. But the truth is that each and every day is precious -- it's an opportunity to move the plot along and have a bunch of laughs. I think I'm going to try to make sure I do both. *** I always hoped I wouldn't be the kind of parent to say something like this, but I really don't want anybody picking up or touching my kid. At least not yet. I'm dreading that shit. How do I know your hands are clean? I bet they aren't. Plus, some people handle children with an arrogant recklessness that bugs the crap out of me. They throw their own kids around, and they think they can do the same with yours.** They say things like, "These little guys are amazingly resilient" after dropping their kid right on his melon. Do me a favor, please -- if you're one of those tossy-around-look-how-tough-the-little-critters-are types, please keep your unwashed hands off my kid. You presumptuous fucker. *** Boy do I not care about Lance Armstrong. I mean, I actively do not care about him. I set aside fifteen minutes every day for figuring out ways to make sure I continue to not care about him. I think the TDF will be much more interesting when he retires. Who cares, they're all juiced anyway. It would be cool if a guy finished 3rd on a unicycle or something. Then I'd watch. *** OK, you smarty pantses, wheredat and whodat? Ten points each.
* Not that there is really a good ending. Dying is a pain in the ass, unless
you are profoundly certain that you are confirmed on the next flight to heaven.
That would make it OK, even if it turned out you were wrong and there is no
heaven or there is a heaven and you aren't invited. At least as you died you
felt comfort in how you left the earth. 7/6/5: Three consecutive numbers counting backwards God Bless wacky HaloScan. Lately it's been failing to tally the comments properly, just displaying Comments (1) no matter how many comments have been left. Mysterious. I like the way it spices up the commenting process. You know what else I like? I like assuming that every baseball player who's having an unusually crap year this year is a steroid case who's been forced to clean up his act and hasn't been able to adjust. It's probably not that far off to think that way. So here's a partial list of dudes who must have been juicin' until the new rules took effect this season:
2) Bret Boone - Dude got cut. That's a pretty far fall from flipping his bat obnoxiously after every home run swing. 3) Sammy Sosa - OK, I have defended Sosa for years, through the cork, through the clubhouse radio monopolizing, through the steroid whispers. I did it even though I knew in my heart he was probably a cheater. But seeing him now all but confirms it. a) He's skinnier -- like 1990 White Sox Sammy Sosa skinnier. Even his shoulders look narrower. b) Balls that used to fly off his bat and onto Waveland avenue now nestle harmlessly in outfielders' gloves -- I saw this happen about 4 times in the Yanks-O's series. c) Worst of all, and tell me if I'm imagining this, his hair has grown back! Check out shots of his visibly receding hairline from the last seven or eight years and contrast them with the beautifully full head of hair he's got today. It's pretty incriminating. I bet his back zits have cleared up, too. I guess we all have to accept that the magic battle of 1998 was just a couple of cheaters cheating their cheating asses off. 4) Barry Bonds - his rash of debilitating injuries seems eerily similar to Giambi's sickening steroid withdrawal last season. Not to mention the other piles of evidence against him. 5) Randy Johnson - Well, something ain't right with him, that's for sure. Maybe it's age, but it seems like it might go beyond that. 6) Mike Piazza - he sure lost some bop from that bat. I know he's not young either, but he looks skinnier and the ball just doesn't seem to be going as far. 7) Joe Torre - just look at the results. Feel free to add your own suggestions to the list, I haven't really looked into this at all. But I'm also wondering why Clemens has seemingly gotten better and better each year into his 40's. I had thought he was a steroid case but his improvement seems to contradict that. I suppose your response will be that he's using designer steroids that are like five years ahead of the testing program. If that is your response, you're either really smart or quite stupid. Also, have you noticed how damn greasy and sweaty Giambi is all the time? What's his deal? I think he's on something. Maybe it's Tussin. That's how I always looked the morning after a Tussin binge. As you know, I've been contemplating the future of this here site, trying to figure out if its got any gas left in the tank. Is there a way I can keep it going without sacrificing the other, less important parts of my life, like my job and family? And then I got an email from D. Lee that helped me figure it out. The key is YOU, the eight readers of this site. If you send in enough contributions, we can keep my involvement at a nice manageable level. So it is with that notion I present to you D. Lee's predictions for the NBA Draft Class of 2005. It shows how much I've lost touch with the NBA that I've only heard of about half these guys. Yikes. Anyway, here goes and thanks to D. Lee.
We'll have to check back in a year and see how you did.
Finally, per Deion's request, here is a wheredat
worth 16 points. Enjoy.
Every six months or so, I'm gonna give you the hot pizza photo. That's just something you can continue to count on here at verbungle.com. Has there ever been a player who played at such a tremendously high level for one team for his entire career and elicited less love and goodwill than Frank Thomas? Maybe it's because he's a bit surly, maybe it's because he plays for a historically unsuccessful team that has continued to be (mostly) unsuccessful since he arrived. Maybe there's an element of racism involved. But if I had to put my finger on one particular thing, I'd say it's the fact that he's spent half his career as a DH. It's hard to fall for a guy who sits on the bench chewing gum for 96% of the game. Although I guess Seattle fans loved Edgar Martinez. So I don't know. OK, this post was interrupted by a major life event, so let's go ahead and discuss it. You may or may not know that the Bungles welcomed our first child over the weekend. I could go into great detail about the whole event, but I won't. There are at least two reasons for this. One, you don't come here to read a dad's gushing daily anecdotes about his baby. I know I don't care all that much for stories about other people's babies. Which isn't to say that they're not fascinating stories, to the people whose baby it is. And maybe even to the friends of the people whose baby it is. But to the greater public, they're death. If I don't know you or your baby, you're going to have a hard time keeping my attention with stories about how your kid cracked you up with some pricelessly innocent act this morning. And I won't insult you by asking you to listen to stories about my kid. You come here for the hard-hitting investigative journalism, the idiotic contests, the meaningless drunken college stories, and maybe once in a while because you're in the mood for a nice 8th-grade level observation about life. But for me to type, "I can't believe the baby peed on my hand today" is not the direction we want to go here. Two, as fantastic and awe-inspiring as the event itself is and was, it's also kind of personal. Kind of private. And by its very nature a website -- even a bullshit little website like this one -- is a public thing. So while I'll be glad to bore every last one of you with a full recap the next time I see you in person, this isn't the time or place for that. Those two disclaimers aside, I will just say a couple or three quick things. First, I am amazed by Ma Bungle. She was ridiculously strong and composed through the whole thing. An all-star performance and I am truly in awe of her. Second, I want to say that the entire event has been the most dramatic and profound experience of my life, and I am tickled to death about what the future holds. But if you have a kid you already know all that crap, and if you don't, me saying it won't mean anything to you anyway. Finally, on a somewhat selfish note, the day your child is born and the days immediately following that day are just awesome fucking days. It's sort of like your wedding day in that you're just a little bit more special than everybody else. It's like this event has made you a better and more significant human. You know it and the other, less significant humans know it, too. You're entitled to a little more world on days like that, and I suggest you take it, because within a week or two you'll just be another sad sack trying to get by on three hours' sleep. See, you don't need to hear stuff like that. And you probably won't read another word about my baby on here. So on to the old crap. The last few times I've heard Donald Trump speak in public, I get a weird feeling that he's doing an impersonation of Darrell Hammond's Donald Trump impersonation. In other words, Darrell Hammond's Donald Trump is now more accurate than Donald Trump's Donald Trump. Fireworks are kinda cool, but I am sure ready for them to end after about 8 minutes. Jesus, an HOUR? Still, props to the Grucci brothers for hooking us up with another fine 4th. Yes, I know it wasn't actually the Grucci brothers. Save your energy. Even though we're getting ready to close up shop, we're not going to let it stop us from busting out new features as we see fit. We've got one such new feature today, and we call it Profiles in Dignity. This section is going to consist of short biographies of regular people I have known through the years who have moved me in some way. Let's see how it works. Today's inaugural edition: B. New. For twelve points, whodat? |
I
wonder how fondly we'll look back on 2005. It seems like a pretty charmless
year, nothing good has really happened*. But I guess if somebody came up to you
on July 21st, 1993 and asked you for a mid-year evaluation, you might feel the
same way. 
I
wonder how far that can get you.
I
was all set for bed tonight and then I saw a spanking new column from cW in the
inbox, so you have lucked into a nice Friday post (from him, anyway).
Wow,
cW 
without leaving a trail of admiring fans behind him. It's
almost an achievement in itself: he's managed to dominate in a sport for
20 years without forging any kind of bond with anybody, except all his
K-named kids. Fox was pushing "Clemens as Legend" so hard tonight. They had the nerve to
play Journey's "Faithfully" during their in-game retrospective on his
career -- expecting tears, I'll bet. This was not just an error in
taste, but of judgment. Has Clemens ever shown "faith" to the fans who
would love him if he did? Has he rewarded them? No, he's a Hessian
bastard, and the fans can smell it a mile away. Smelly Hessian
Bastard. Now Baseball now wants us to believe he's "Houston's
favorite son." Anybody out there from Houston who can confirm or
deny this? Aren't people in Houston more attached to athletes who
have achieved success in Houston, for Houston? People like Nolan Ryan,
Earl Campbell, and Hakeem Olajuwon? Sure, Clemens has had a great
three months there, but rumor is he's already hinting that he'd like to move
on. Does anyone like him? Give me and the good people of
Houston Dickie Thon any day.
The
genius race is tighter than Ed Asner's speedo right now. Both PB and Joe M.
answered questions correctly yesterday, keeping the pressure on one another as
we head toward the finish. I was especially impressed by PB's taunt of "Boo-Ya"
after he solved the GISG. I once played a game of pickup basketball at Horatio
street with a white Wall Street pretty boy who insisted on yelling "Boo-Ya!"
every time he launched a jump shot. I kid you not. And he wasn't even any good.
Matter of fact he sucked. Those are always the guys who squawk the loudest, the
scrubby dudes with lots of money. 
Verbungle.com
sends its thoughts and good wishes towards London tonight. The terrorist attacks
of Thursday morning have saddened us and angered us and confused us and scared
us and left us wondering when this cycle will end. It seems to me it just won't.
It's been going on around the world for a long time, I guess, but as Americans
we're just getting to understand it now. The odds, I fear, will always favor the
terrorists. They only need a successful attack like yesterday's every once in
awhile to disrupt our lives and fuck our shit up. We can hunt them down by the
hundred and take over countries left and right, it won't matter. All they need is a small network
of dudes to carry out an attack like yesterday's. It's just too easy. Sad.
Happy July, you cockroaches. May you crawl fearlessly across sidewalks and
squirm between subway grates with abandon. 
