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It's almost June and I'm tired. 2005 has been a long year and I expect it's going to get longer. Funny how people have no problem wishing a day would end, but when it comes to trying to get to the end of a whole year, that seems nuts, right? I mean, that's a lot of wasted time, a year. But shouldn't each day be treated as precious in its own right? A chance to turn around a run of bad luck or maybe call up an old friend. Or just appreciate the fact that you're alive and breathing free air and you can drink as much soda as you please. I am going to apply a sense of grateful enthusiasm to every hour I get on this earth from here on out.
In the years of some people's lord 1996 and 1997, I spent a whole lot of time riding the bus.* My girlfriend (now wife) had moved to Boston for graduate school, and I rode Peter Pan/Bonanza/Greyhound just about every single weekend to go see her. Bus travel has long been the subject of widespread ridicule, and with good reason. It's the worst way to get anywhere. Here's a brief list of people you'll meet while traveling by bus: -those too poor to fly, drive, or take the train (see me,
1996-97) That's about it. The seats are uncomfortable, the bathroom smell eventually overpowers the entire bus, there's always an asshole gabbing on his cell phone. It takes a long time to get from one place to another, especially if the weather gets messy. If you manage to find that elusive hour of sleep, you inevitably wake up with a stiff neck that lasts for three days. One time when I was riding the bus -- and I can't recall if it was the Boston-NYC bus, I guess it was but it feels more like it was someplace in the Midwest -- there was a teenage girl, maybe 16, in the row behind me. It was snowy and bitter cold outside, and the night was extremely dark; from the bus window the world looked like as lonely and desolate as the surface of the moon. This young girl was talking to another woman, maybe 25, and I overheard their entire conversation. The younger girl was moving to a new city to start her life over. She had an abusive stepfather and her first-ever boyfriend had betrayed her and she had a weight problem and her mother had died and now she was on her own with nothing in the world to her name except an oversized duffel bag. She didn't know anybody in her new city, she said, but anything was better than staying in her town even one more day.. Her story was especially poignant because she told it without a trace of self-pity. It was all very matter-of-fact. Life deals you bad blow after bad blow. You get up, you roll on. She somehow managed to sound completely optimistic about the next stage of her life. Completely naive and full of courage. She may have been the sweetest girl in the whole world. Sometimes I think about her and I wonder if she made it. Where did she stay those first few nights? Who looks out for people like that? I considered giving her my phone number just in case she got in an emergency, and I probably should have, but 27 year-old men who give their phone numbers to 16 year-old girls on the bus are a group I really didn't want to belong to. In her honor I will march forward into the lovely month of June with an attitude so positive it'd make Tony Robbins blush. My problems are nothing and my opportunities are essentially limitless. I hope you made it, poor little girl. Whodat (#14) with the hat on? And whodat? (#15) 12 points each, you may answer immediately. * I am talking about real long-distance bus travel, not commuter buses or city buses or that type of thing. Those are generally OK. 5/30/05: The mustard is off the hot dog, you big corn fed mule you
Movie I watch all the way through every time it's on, but I'm not exactly proud of it: "White Men Can't Jump." I can't really call it 100% good, but it's way better than just a guilty pleasure or a time-period curiosity. It's funny, and it always puts me in a good mood. The basketball scenes are very entertaining. And when was the last time L.A. was photographed so well? Wesley and Woody are both just good enough for you to sit around and argue as to whether they're good or they suck. It also has: Rosie Perez at her absolute peak in every sense. Kadeem Hardison in a career-defining (and ending) performance. Marques Johnson with some fine comic relief. An interesting soundtrack featuring Cypress Hill, James Brown, Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin and Boo-Yaa Tribe. The movie could have ended about three times, but it just keeps going, and somehow they saved the best ending for last. Ron Shelton has made some duds, but he has a real soft spot for the eternal loser, and Woody Harrelson's character is a great example. He could have found redemption any number of times, but he keeps going back and screwing up the same exact way again and again. Just like we all do. And at the end of the film, has he finally figured it all out? Of course not. It's a rare example of a very commercial movie that has a great chance to sell its soul completely and give you an ending in which everybody finally finds a way to improve their place in the universe. But it doesn't do that, and for that I respect it even more. I know it's pretty wack, but I'ma give it a 24.2 on the VRS. I may rethink that at a later date. Not much of a turnout for softball tonight. Kramer beat Kramer 7-2 in a 5 on 5 game cut short in the bottom of the third due to apathy. I went out with Rob M. and the Giambi Bros. after the game for a couple of beers. We went to the Blind Tiger over on Hudson, and it smelled like shit, piss, stale beer, sweat, ass sweat, ass, puke, and feet in there. The humidity hit 135% at one point. But we ordered cheese steaks and stuck it out through a pretty boring Yanks-Bosox game anyway. Believe it or not, I've never had a cheese steak before. I wasn't sure what I should order it with, but when Adam Giambi ordered his with onions and Cheese Whiz I sensed that was the way to go. And I was right. Although my stomach seems to be telling me there is trouble ahead. You know, we've had T-shirts on sale for over a year now, and we've only sold 8. First of all, thanks to the 8 who've stepped up and bought one, and secondly, I don't blame the rest of you for passing on the opportunity. If you had a bullshit website and you sold T-shirts, I probably wouldn't buy one either. That said, just because we don't sell any of the shirts doesn't stop us from putting out new ones. So here is the latest off the line. Don't bother buying one. Why would you want to be the coolest kid on your block anyway? The wife and I have switched from the endless series of Poland Spring bottles to the Brita filter. No complaints at all so far. I found this interesting. I've always enjoyed the "walk in" music or whatever it's called, and while I guess it's a bummer that it's become such an officially documented part of the concert experience, I still like seeing which bands the bands like. You had to know Bruce would be diggin' on some My Morning Jacket. Whodat (10 points) and whodat in the middle (10 points, 5 more for each of the other two dudes)? Answer as soon as you want. Unsurprising discovery of the day: the men who drive race cars for a living are a bunch of whining pussies. They're always going on about the fact that race car drivers are "real athletes" who require strength and stamina and YOU try sitting in a sweaty jumpsuit for three hours blah blah blah, and the second a woman manages to work her way into their sport they start bitching because she doesn't weigh as much as they do. What a joke. Even with the difference in weight*, shouldn't your superior blend of muscle and endurance wear this teeny little girl down? Thank God I've wasted less than seven minutes of my life on your sport. And go Danica. It reminds me of when all the golfers got up in arms about Casey Martin asking to ride in a golf cart because he had a circulatory disease. Their argument: walking the 18 holes is sooooo physically exhausting that riding in a cart would give him an unfair advantage. You know what, golf wasn't ruined when he won his case. He didn't go out and win 18 straight torunaments. And I don't think Danica Patrick is going to win every race she enters. If she does, then we can address your stupid sexist complaints. It seems like the lamer and less legitimate the "sport" is, the more desperate the participants become to prevent others from competing in it. Gas Face: Golf, Auto Racing. Toothless, grinning, wart-on-the-end-of-the-nose, Kevin-Brown-hand-me-down Gas Face: Robby Gordon. * And I'm not saying the difference is completely insignificant. Thanks for the kind words about yesterday's pathetic tale of adolescent woe. I had a moment of panic on the way to work today when I became so embarrassed about posting it that I wished I could delete it, but your nice comments soothed me immensely. What's a lamer, hokier move: or -when you are trying to walk by someone going the opposite direction as you in the hall or on the street and you both keep sliding in the same direction in your attempts to get out of each other's way, prompting the other lame-o to say, "Shall we dance?" I'm pretty sure I've done both at one time or another.
I think someone, maybe Jay-Z, should do a rap version of "It's Hard to Be a Saint in the City." Just make a few tweaks to the lyrics to remove some of the corny 70's slang, and it's a natural fit. A million-seller. Update on B. New: "Starting this Tuesday I will be back on the air in prime
time on a regular basis. I'll be on WRUV-FM in Burlington, VT every other
Tuesday from 6-8 p.m. The show will be streamed live at
www.wruv.org and archived shows will be
available for download soon after being aired. You heard the man, tune the hell in. I hope everybody has an excellent Memorial Day weekend. It's interesting how weekends mean such vastly different things to different people. For some people, it's a chance to rest. Others are hoping for a chance to slip a hand down a stranger's pants. Some people make big plans with the family after a hard week on the job. Others plan on getting annihilated at the bar, and succeed in this endeavor. Fat guys sit on couches slurping beer and eating fritos. Joggers go jogging. Some poor saps have to work. Some people go on three day crystal meth binges (myself generally included here). Some of us play sports, some of us go see bands and some of us play in bands. Whatever the case, this particular three day weekend is coming at a most welcome time and I am looking forward to it. In addition to playing ball and seeing my pops and renting a car to go shopping for household items in New Jersey, I also plan on giving you the first installment of "Kingdoms without Balls," our exciting short story offering for the Spring. Preorder now, and set aside three to five minutes of your weekend to read it. I think I am also going to actually spend a moment this weekend raising a glass to all the soldiers who've died in wars just and unjust over the years, including the ones who haven't yet died in Iraq. Soldiers from all countries. I know this is exactly what the Bush administration wants me to do, but so be it. Fighting in wars is one shitty job and we really do take those dudes (and ladies) for granted most of the time. Verbungle.com says Thank You. I don't watch much auto racing, but I think the whole story about Danica Patrick is pretty exciting. It would be absolutely awesomeriffic if she won. I don't know how it took me until today to hear of her. Whodat? (#10, 14 points) and whodat? (#11, 25 points). And what the hell, if you can give me a city name and street name for the picture above, that'll garner you 8 points. No points for the city alone. You can answer all this crap immediately. 5/26/05: Covalent Bonds and Shit It started with a chemistry test and ended with me pretending to graduate from high school. I'll spare you some of the details along the way because I intend to tell the story in the next hour and four minutes. What happened, what launched it all, is that I tanked a chemistry test during my sophomore year in high school. I knew I tanked it, but I didn't know just how badly. And I was scared to find out. Our teacher, Dr. Lefkowitz, was a genuine asshole and it wouldn't be beneath him to call out our grades as we got our tests back. So on the day when we were scheduled to get them back, I skipped class. It was a simple decision, made in probably two to three minutes' time, but it shaped the rest of my adolescence and continues to impact my life to this very day. Back to the test. I went to Stuyvesant High School on East 15th Street, and if you've heard of it you may know that it has a reputation as an extremely competitive school. Future Nobel Prize winners and future high-powered lawyers and kids who got 1580's on their SAT's and cried when they didn't get 100 on a math test. Yes, we had some weenies. The good thing was, if you were a second-tier student like myself, you could sort of float above the lunacy of the competition, because you simply weren't good enough to participate anyway. So I got decent grades my first year and a half, not working too hard, not getting caught up in any bullshit. Just minding my awkward teenage business and trying to find my way in the world. Then during the second semester of my sophomore year, something went wrong inside of me. From people I've talked to over the years, I realize that this is a dangerous time in a person's development; a lot of kids go off the rails right around that age. Some might argue that it's the discovery of girls and the ensuing hormonal chaos that causes the breakdown, but speaking personally I had been achingly aware of the magic of girls much earlier, maybe in 3rd grade. Then again in 7th. And pretty much solidly from that point forward.
Whatever it was, something invaded my soul around that time, and it caused me to stop doing my schoolwork. I don't know if the intensity of the work increased and I was too dumb or too lazy to keep up, or if I just melted down all on my own. What I do know is that I can directly trace it to the moment sophomore year when I decided, You know what? I'm not going to Dr. Lefkowitz's class next period to get my 63 back. I just can't do it. Maybe tomorrow I can do it. It's weak thinking, but it's easy to think weak, especially when the alternative was going to class and seeing all my friends with their shimmering 97's and even their respectable 85's. I hadn't studied, I hadn't learned the material, and I had failed the test. I knew it. So I bailed. And, you guessed it, I bailed the next day as well. And I never went back to his class. Soon I stopped going to a couple other classes as well, and the situation started to spin out of control. There was the uncomfortable daily routine in which my friends would go to class, see that I wasn't there, and then we'd all meet up and play ball after school and pretend everything was fine. I ended up failing three classes that semester and two more the first semester of my junior year. I hid everything from my parents and entered into a "don't ask-don't tell" gentleman's agreement with my friends. They knew I was losing my mind, and I appreciated the fact that they never mentioned it. The weird thing is that I would go to school every day, go to homeroom, be marked "present," and then simply skip the classes I didn't like. It was not a well-devised plan. I don't recommend it. I can remember one day when things hit rock bottom. I was circulating way too many lies and it was wearing me out. I left school around 10 am and wandered for a few blocks, walking in the general direction of my apartment. I didn't know where to go. I was like Kevin Costner at the end of "No Way Out." I finally decided that I wanted to go home, lay in bed and hide from it all. I wanted to take a full sick day and have my father take care of me. So I decided I would do just that. Only I was so clearly not sick that I figured I'd have to sneak into the house when he wasn't around so I could better pull it off. During that period, my father was not working and my sister was going to City-As-School, an experimental high school where kids who couldn't really deal with their traditional high schools could go for a different kind of learning experience. Instead of classes, you had a job. And you got graded on it. My sister was managing a theater or something, and on this morning, she didn't have to be anywhere. When I arrived at the front door to my apartment, I looked through our bent-up keyhole latch and at the end of our long hallway I could see my sister and my father, sitting at the living room table together, reading the paper and drinking coffee. I was jealous of their legitimate peaceful morning. I resented them for having no place to be. I also knew that I didn't have the emotional strength to muster a good fake illness in front of the two of them. It would be easier if I could get into the bed without talking to them, I thought. So I waited for them to go out. I sat in the stairwell one floor above my apartment for about two hours, holding my head in my hands, trembling with anxiety, waiting for that door to open. Finally, in the early afternoon, they went out for a walk. And I snuck into the house and collapsed into my bed. And I pulled off fake sick for a day. But the problems were still surrounding me, and I didn't have the wherewithal to solve them on my own. Finally, a teacher called my house one evening and told my father that I hadn't been to his class for about two months. My pops gently confronted me. I told him as much truth as I could remember. And I stopped skipping class. Unfortunately, it was too late for those five classes I had flunked. I would have to make them up as part of my schedule during my last year and a half of high school. So during that last semester senior year, when everybody has only four classes scheduled and leaves school at noon, I'd have 7 and leave school at 3. If you've ever failed a class, you know it can be pretty humiliating. I was so embarrassed about the fact that I was re-taking sophomore classes as a junior and junior classes as a senior that I never admitted to my friends that I had failed anything. I just went in and did the work and slowly dug myself out of my hole. I made friends with some kids in the class beneath me but I never acknowledged them in front of my own friends, for fear of being found out. The lies were continuing, but at least I was going to class. One day after class I had volunteered to return a Bunsen burner to the chemistry department. There I ran into Deion, who was swinging by looking for a college recommendation. Once he saw me standing there with the burner, I knew my goose was cooked. Chemistry is a sophomore class and I was a junior, holding a god damn Bunsen burner. "What are you doing here?" I asked. "I'm getting a recommendation," he said. "What about you...?" "Lefko failed me," I finally admitted. I can still hear those exact words ringing out. We were standing in the hall right outside the chemistry department and I felt an enormous unburdening just to have told someone. Deion was nice about it. He couldn't have been surprised. Whatever the case, it felt wonderful to see that he was still my friend even though I had become a fuckup. But I still swore him to secrecy. Semesters went by. I kept chipping away at the failed classes that I had to make up. My grades improved to barely adequate levels. By my last semester I was all set to graduate on time with my friends. I had, to my astonishment, been accepted to college. I even had a girlfriend. Then one day, with about six weeks left in my final semester, I was examining my transcript and I realized that I had failed a required class and never made it up. And now it was too late; I was fucked. But I didn't say anything. I just rode it out for awhile. I attended the graduation ceremony at Lincoln Center. My name was even called to come up and get my fake diploma. But as any burnout worth his salt knows, the ceremony means nothing. You get your real diploma a week or so later, after they make sure you passed all your classes and stuff. About two days before the last day of high school, they passed out letters to all the kids who were not going to be allowed to graduate. There were two potential reasons for not graduating. The first and more common was that you had failed to return a textbook. In this case, you merely had to stop by the administrative office, return the textbook or pay for it, and then you would receive your diploma right on the spot. The second and more ominous reason for getting the letter was that you had failed a class or ten and your ass was going to have to attend summer school or repeat 12th grade in order to graduate. This was the category I fell into, and I knew it. My only ace in the hole was that I also had one unreturned textbook -- a chemistry book, ironically -- and I figured maybe I could bluff the office lady into thinking that was what was holding up my diplomage. It didn't say on the letter exactly what the problem was, so I figured It was worth a shot. I got on line at the "clear your name or sign up for summer school" window, and as shitty luck would have it, my good friend Benjy was standing right in front of me. He had a couple of textbooks to return, and as soon as he did, they handed him that spankin' diploma. He offered to wait while I returned my book, and then we could go outside together and start signing people's yearbooks and imagining the good times ahead. "Nah, you go ahead," I told him, petrified that he might be there when they told me I needed to go to summer school. "This might take a few minutes." Like a good friend, he left without asking any questions. Now my turn was up. "Returning a textbook," I lied to the office lady. The lady took the textbook, looked up my name in their files, and was about to go grab my diploma when something in my file struck her as amiss. She made a very serious face and to this day I am certain she noticed that I had a failed class to make up. She grabbed an assistant principal who was standing nearby. They huddled for a good minute or two, her giving him the rundown, and I could feel my summer start to slip away. Then, with one casual wave of the hand, that kind assistant principal basically said, "Screw it, give the kid his diploma." I don't know if he felt sorry for me or if he was confused by my textbook ploy or if he just didn't want to deal, but 18 years later I don't care. To him I simply say: Thank you. So there you have it: I'm a high school dropout and a college graduate. Keep it under your hat. Thanks for sitting through that crap. Now tell me, whodat? 10 points, you can answer immediately. 5/25/05: Would this man harm a squirrel?
Then as you finish your lunch and you're throwing out the wrappers, you get a strong urge to pee. Do you stop in the bathroom to wash your hands properly before handling your pecker? Or do you get right in there and pee, knowing you're going to wash up on the way out anyway and just accepting the fact that you may get a little food slime on your member along the way? It's a toughie. Speaking of things that make you want to wash your hands, I saw old friend Mike D. Hunt on Monday night for a couple of beers at our lonely old hangout Shades of Green. Very good to see Mike, and he seemed in excellent spirits. Although I should mention that he wasn't too pleased when he heard that Big Jim Lang has been talking mess about him on the monkeyweb chatboards. He did, however, grudgingly admit that he could probably slay at least one lion on his own without using a weapon. He didn't elaborate on a plan (Mike, feel free to do so), but I wouldn't bet against him. The thing about Mike is that he possesses an almost superhuman combination of physical prowess and mental acuity, and he is always being tempted strongly by the Dark Side. You really just don't want to fuck with the guy, even if you're a 500 pound lion. It's a losing proposition. Mike and I punished his co-worker Matt with a barrage of stories about our drunken college exploits. I can think of almost nothing more excruciating than listening to two other guys talk about their shared glory days, and I give Matt props for his patience. There was the night in 1992 or '93 when we drunkenly drove Mike's beat-up Nissan pickup truck to Chicago from Madison and made it as far as the parking lot of an oasis McDonald's somewhere in Northern Illinois before growing too tired to carry on. The two of us passed out in a tangle of sore arms and legs and nearly froze in the cab of the truck. I gently woke Mike at around 8am by rattling a bone-cracking fart off the top of his head. Perhaps my finest hour. Before we had departed the night before, I left a note for my good buddy, roommate and co-worker Brian, asking him to please tell our boss that I wasn't feeling well and couldn't make it to work the next day. Of course, Mike had flipped the note over and written on the reverse side, "I am going to die tonight and I'm taking Hans with me." I still don't know if he meant it. See, other people's stories are torture, and I could fill an entire book with tales of Mr. Hunt. Feel free to share your own, but keep them on the clean, unincriminating side or you can best believe you will awaken to find Mike staring in your bedroom window at some point later this week. And he will almost certainly bludgeon you to death with a metal rod. Speaking of which, today a co-worker's girlfriend saw a Catholic priest bludgeoning a squirrel to death on the front steps of a church. The priest had a wild look in his eye and was practically foaming at the mouth with rage as he repeatedly struck the squirrel with a large metal rod. The squirrel was emitting an ungodly scream for several minutes. During the assault, a young female parishioner stepped forward to protest, and she was forcefully ushered back inside the church by a nun who slammed the door behind them. Eventually, the priest decapitated the squirrel. Then he went back inside the church and returned with a dustpan and broom. He swept the squirrel and its head into the dustpan, heaved it into the garden adjoining the church and walked back inside. My friend's girlfriend stormed into the church and found the priest washing his face off with some holy water or somethin', mumbling some prayers, still red with anger. She confronted him about his savage attack and he replied, with a laugh, that the squirrel had desecrated the church. Someone called the ASPCA on his ass and within minutes, there was a cop car and an ASPCA team on site. They took the squirrel out in a little squirrel body bag and apparently they are going to press charges on this dude. Verbungle.com wants it made clear that we do not condone the slaughtering of squirrels on public streets in front of small children, no matter how much shit the squirrel has deposited on your steps. I say let the guy spend a night at Rikers and maybe he'll learn a thing or two about desecration. I kind of get the feeling that Manu Ginobili has given up on his hair for the time being and is planning on addressing it in the offseason. Sorry about the lack of a softball recap last week. We assigned it to two of our top sports columnists, both of whom were unable to get their arms around the story. I think there may be a work slowdown in progress around here. The whole sports department wants more money. Don't they know the dot-com boom is over? Ah, well. We may fold last week's recap into next week's, we'll see, In the meantime, you should know that D. Lee got off the Schneid. His team, Predator, dismantled my team, Alien, in both halves of a twin bill. Called shots abounded for Predator. Kissel hit a called grand slam. Pete B. went called yard again. D. Lee and Justin and plenty of other dudes did as well. I even went out of the park lefty a couple of times, once illegally called. When we don't have a real nice mushy ball, the called and uncalled home runs seem to dictate the outcome of the game, perhaps too much so. Predator had a lot of the former, we had a lot of the latter. No good. We may need to do something about this. As predicted, Brian Castro steamrolled to victory in the lyric stumpah game. He's still got his doubters, and the private investigator we hired to check up on him has gone so far as to seize his google search history, but until the results from that analysis are in, all we can say is the man knows his god damn lyrics. Pretty unreal. Congrats and expect your prize in the next few weeks, depending on Cafe Press lag time. We may roll out a new stumpah game in the next couple of weeks, we'll let you know. For now, though: whodat? (#7, 10 points.) And whodat? (#8, ten points.) Oh, and wheredat? (7 points.) You may begin answering immediately. 5/23/05: Two last drunks for Joe
In honor of Joe's return to good health, Big Jimmy Lang, Joe
and I went out for an impromptu boys' dinner on Saturday night. We went to
Moran's on 10th avenue, and I'll admit it: I had a steak. Boy was it good. This
marked the second time in the last two weeks that I ate an animal. My first
transgression was 1/2 a pulled pork sandwich at work about ten days ago. It was
free. I will apparently put aside my vegetarian ethics when something is free. Killing aside, it was good to see Joe eating a steak and drinking down the cold beer. Medical science kicks ass. *** Well, today is Monday and that means it's probably the day when Brian Castro locks up Lyric Stumpah II. I can't recall another rookie coming out of nowhere to dominate his chosen sport the way Brian has. Maybe Fred Lynn. I miss Fred Lynn. Perhaps once this round of stumpage is completed, we will start another. And perhaps cW will come out of retirement to take on Brian C. in a tournament of champions type-dealie. And perhaps neither of them will win. Maybe it will be Disco Dan K. who will take the prize. Maybe it will be Fred Lynn. As for now, can anyone stop Castro's rampage? *** Does John Smoltz belong in the Hall of Fame? I think not. *** For ten points, whodat? For two points, really a formality just because I felt like posting this picture, wheredat? You may begin answering immediately.
* Or so I am told. I have never in my life tasted a gross-ass lobster-monster, and I never will. 5/20/5: Reggie, Into the Sunset I'll admit it. I cried for Reggie tonight. That's the way I am. Not just one tear, either -- maybe 25 or 30. Let's call it 27. A huge emotional event in my own life and I am as stoic as an Easter Island statue. Then I release it all at some stupid moment like tonight that has nothing to do with me. In the next few days, lots of people are going to talk about Reggie and try to contextualize his career and figure out what he meant to the NBA and where he fits in among the all time greats blah blah blah. So instead of trying to analyze all that shit, I will just say a few words to Reggie, who has been an active supporter of verbungle.com since the early days. Dear Reggie, Sleep well knowing this: you were on tonight. 11-16 from the field, 27 points in a pressure-filled playoff game, just the way you always liked it. Not many players ever went out with a better night than that. Your old nemesis Mike? He had his legacy gift-wrapped with the cobra extension shot after the flagrant push-off against the Jazz, but then he went and messed it up with that ugly Washington comeback. His final game? 15, 4, and 4 in a meaningless regular season loss to the 76ers. But you had a clutch Reggie Miller night tonight, coming up a little bit short like you always did, but firing away with style and guts until the game finally proved unwinnable. When you were born, your legs were so twisted and damaged that the doctors said you'd be lucky to ever walk normally, let alone play sports. And even when you said fuck that and became a college star, nobody ever thought you were rugged enough to last in the NBA. But you dragged that "Indiana Bones" physique through season after long season, always managing to stay away from serious injuries. Taking hits, selling fouls to the refs, playing what was at times a spectacular role but doing it with an underrated sense of the fundamentals of the sport. Simply: you knew when to shoot, and when not to. That alone separated you from many players more talented than you. I'll remember you as one of the most dramatic athletes of my lifetime. The way fans watched Darryl Strawberry or Reggie Jackson bat, we watched you shoot. It was a weird-looking shot, with your hands criss-crossing on the follow through, but it was pure, and as we watched it ripple the net year after year, it actually started to look sorta cool. You knew where the cameras were, you knew how to play the villain, and I'll admit it: I hated you. For five or six solid years, I hated you. I can't even say I respected you. But from the smug look on your face when you were giving Spike the choke sign or the businesslike way you went up to the free throw line and made shot after automatic shot, it was clear you didn't want us to respect you. You wanted us to hate and fear you, and we did. Maybe, as Beantown Bill Simmons insists, you weren't a "superstar" in every sense of the word. Your game wasn't the most well-rounded, you didn't fill up all the stat columns. But rather than debate what exactly it is that makes someone a "superstar," I will tell you that the last team that I cared about enough to make me lose sleep was the mid-90's Knicks, and your distinctive, never-aging mug was often at the center of those restless nights. You were the dreaded enemy, just like Jordan. More than Pippen, more than Hardaway or Olajuwon or Duncan or any of the other players who snuffed out Knick seasons in the 90's. You were the guy who somehow ended up standing nearly unguarded at the 3-point line at the one moment in the game when we could afford to do anything but leave you unguarded at the 3-point line. That sight, you standing there with the ball, going up for the three -- it scared the living shit out of me and I suspect it always will. But the same way we lose our own youth -- slowly, bit by bit -- the great teams of our lifetimes get old and eventually disintegrate. Like your Pacers, those Knicks teams never had enough to go all the way. And as my Knicks slipped into mediocrity and then even lower than that, my hatred for you turned into a sense of deep respect. You played through the Bird-Magic era, the Jordan era, the Olajuwon era, and finally the Shaq-Kobe-Iverson-Duncan era. Through it all, your game and your body held up. You didn't change a thing. And there you were tonight, drilling threes, scaring the shit out of another team and another city. Your team came up short again, but you didn't. If you're not over the hill, shit, maybe I'm not either. Thanks for the memories. Your friend, Hans Bungle ***
He has studied their behavior ... and determined that the
squirrels don't appear to treat each other differently because they are black or
gray. We have a lot to learn from the squirrels. But we knew that already. *** Thanks to Chris H. for this article about Stuytown, in case ya missed it. Kind of sad to learn about the racist history of the complex. And the writer is deluding himself if he thinks Stuytown is now a racially-mixed utopia. It's mostly honkies, no doubt. But I do agree that there is something really special about this place, something hard to define. I'm so happy I live here. Big Jimmy Lang was right about the book I'm reading, though. It sucks. But I'm still enjoying it for some reason. *** Yesterday Dan K. cleaned up with 8 easy points for his gut-wrenching admission that he sported a rat-tail haircut back in '85. We had no other confessors, which is just as well, because nobody's really beating a rat-tail haircut, are they? No they are not. And Brian C. is proving just plain scary with the Martika knowledge. Today, for twelve points each, I ask you: whodey and wheredat? You may answer immediately. I was going to compile a list of "Things I Used to Do that I Would Never Do Now and That Indeed I Have Trouble Believing I Ever Did" or something like that. But then I got high. So let me list just one of 'em: when I was like 17-19, I used to slap guys in the ass while playing basketball. I had seen the pros do it on TV, I guess, and figured it was a new wrinkle I could add to my game. So for instance, if one of my friends made a great hustle play and scored a big basket, Whap! I would smack him hard right on the ass. Or if I felt that somebody needed a little extra encouragement after a bad turnover, Schmack! right in the ass. Saddest part: I think I may have even occasionally pulled this on complete strangers. I can't recall if anybody ever returned the favor and smacked my ass. Something tells me they didn't. ***
You know what might help lift my spirits? If one of my co-workers would be kind enough to smack me in the ass every once in a while. Note: if you actually work with me, feel free to ignore this advice. *** So the other day we posted the challenge of coming up with the best example of "There are two types of people: _____ and _____." We got 9 responses, but only five of them came before the deadline of 11:59 HST Tuesday night (those are in bold). Among the legal entries, the board has chosen Pete B.'s first submission (also the first on the list below) as the winner*. Pete also tacked on an insurance run with the one about missing the whodat cuz he was taking a leak. Nice work. Had we been able to accept those final four responses (and believe me, we were tempted to), the last two on the list would definitely have merited consideration. I mean, it doesn't get any truer than "There are two kinds of people: those who would fuck Yoda and those who wouldn't." Try to tell me that's wrong. You can't. You simply cannot. Are you still trying? Give it up already. There are two kinds of people in this world: the kind that
goes around saying 'there are two kinds of people in this world,' and the kind
that does not go around saying 'there are two kinds of people in this world.' *** I kind of like today's drunk picture for two reasons. One, Drunks in Suits are funny as hell (image courtesy PBdotC). And two, I think that may be one of the rare documented sightings of Giant Steve. I mean, look at the dude in the picture. His size seems limitless. He could be eight feet tall or he could merely be a shade over 6'8". He looks like someone who could determine his own height based on the needs of the situation. And he's also all bulky and weird looking. Jolly good. *** In 7th grade my English class read Oliver Twist, and I remember being fascinated when my teacher told us that the book was originally published in serial form. Every month, readers would be treated to the latest installment of the story, and indeed Dickens hadn't even written upcoming chapters ahead of time. He was writing as he was going, and that undoubtedly built up a huge level of exhilaration within his own head as well as anticipation in the public consciousness for each new installment. I remember Stephen King trying this a few years ago as well, but I don't remember if he ever finished it. Anyway, I have decided to take their lead with the publishing of the first ever Verbungle.com short story, tentatively entitled "A Kingdom Without Balls."** Of course I do not mean to imply in any way that my story will be as good as the novels of Dickens (and when I say Dickens I am referring to State Farm Mid-Atlantic Sales Rep Stan Dickens), but I like the idea of giving out a little at a time***. More accurately, I like the idea of writing it a little bit at a time. How could I manage more than that with all this shit waiting to be sacked? The good thing is that the outline for the story is in my head, and it's got a beginning, middle and end. Now I just need to see that shit through. Look for the first installment sometime in the next four to seven business days. *** I had a bad idea awhile back. It was to execute Texas death row inmates by having them ride the JFK motorcade route while snipers fired on them to test various assassination theories. After thinking it through, perhaps it's less than humane. *** Joe M. gets credit for the Rosey Grier answer, as MDilly responded a few minutes before noon HST, and that ain't legal. Today we have two challenges, and you may begin responding immediately. 1. For 11 points, Whodat? 2. For 8 points, tell us something embarrassing that you used to do that you would never do now and that Indeed you have trouble believing you ever did. They have to be real things that you actually did at least one time, and the points will go to the most heartbreaking and/or embarrassing. We will accept answers through 11:59 pm HST on Thursday night. Big Jim Lang is hard at work on a softball recap down in the verbungle.com sports department on the 5th floor. We should have it for you soon. * Judging these subjective challenges is problematic. We
realize this, but we like the responses they bring in, so we will continue them.
When I'm playing basketball, if I'm open from fifteen feet, instead of shooting, I'll often think, "What if I miss? It wouldn't be right of me to shoot this shot unless I was pretty sure I'd make it." Once I've thought that, I'm screwed. I'll either pass the ball or miss the shot. Sports should be about playing, not thinking. Even with an anxious fellow like me, there are times where I forget everything and just start playing. And it's just absolute pleasure the whole time. For instance, Steve Nash was just playing the other night when he had 48 points. You could see it in his eyes -- they were almost glazed over with delight as shot after shot found the net. He was pretty much lost in his sport. He threw up 28 shots and 20 went in. He also turned the ball over 9 times, which again goes to show that he was just out there playing. Not thinking of consequences. Not dwelling on mistakes. Just playing. Some people see situations before them and say, "Sure, I could do that." If someone says, "Hey, I'll pay you ten grand to drive my car from New York to Ohio next week. Do you know how to drive a stick?" and they don't know how, they just nod and say, "Of course," figuring "How hard can it be? I'll learn as I go." Not me. I find myself thinking of every possible obstacle to success. Not enough people appreciate how difficult life really is -- even the simple things, if you give them enough thought. Maybe that's because most people are actually out there living it instead of thinking it. But I worry. Even when I'm just watching sports. When I see Derek Jeter stay down on a hard-hit grounder and handle the tough hop every damn time, it blows me away. It puts me on edge. I am unnerved at the casual excellence of the professional athlete. So much so that when these athletes fuck up in horrible, almost unimaginable ways it seems completely natural to me. One night a couple weeks ago, there was a sequence that reminded me how hard sports, and by extension life, really are. At the end of the deciding Bulls-Wizards playoff game, there was an astonishing series of fuckups that actually freaked me out and caused cold sweat beads to form on my neck. The Bulls had the ball, tie game, 36 seconds left. They were in an excellent position to get a potential game-winning shot, and possibly to even go two possessions to one with the remaining time. They called a timeout to set up a special play. Unfortunately, Kirk Heinrich and Chris Duhon must have been in two different huddles, because Heinrich's inbounds pass hit Duhon in the back (fuckup #1) and was scooped up by Jared Jeffries, who soared in for a dunk to put the Wiz up two. As Jeffries flew in for the dunk, Duhon took a wild, meaningless, stupid swipe at the ball (fuckup #2), and was blessed by God not to be called for a foul on the play as well. The Bulls came down to try to set up a game-tying shot, but they overdribbled and Jannero Pargo panicked, forcing up a wild jumper that had no chance of going in (fuckup #3). The Wiz got the rebound and got the ball to Juan Dixon, a 90% FT shooter. He promptly missed 1 of 2 FT's, giving the Bulls hope (fuckup #4). So the Bulls were down 3 with approximately 7 seconds left. They actually got a decent shot at a three but missed it. Tyson Chandler got the offensive rebound for the Bulls with about 5 seconds left, and was immediately surrounded by Wizards defenders, even though he was standing around the foul line and a 2 pointer simply could not hurt the Wiz. The Wiz, by pressuring Chandler, left several three point shooters open (fuckup #5). Chandler, not to be outfucked up by the Wiz, decided, "Screw the pass to the open three point shooter who could tie the game, I'm shooting a worthless turnaround 18 footer instead (fuckup #6)." He missed badly, and Gilbert Arenas got the rebound for Washington with about 3 seconds left. The game was all but over at this point, and Arenas decided to launch the ball in the air in triumph, assuming the clock would expire before the ball came down. In theory, not a fuckup, a pretty smart play. But he only threw the ball about twenty feet in the air (fuckup #7) instead of fifty, and the ball landed out of bounds (fuckup #8 - the ball landing out of bounds would have given the Bulls possession if the refs determined that time remained) just as the clock was expiring. In fact, I believe the refs would have looked at the clock situation again on replay had the Wizards confetti cannon operator not prematurely shot his load right at the moment the ball came down (fuckup #9), sending the arena into a frenzy that was so loud and intense that the officials just snuck away (fuckup #10) without taking a look at exactly how much time, if any, remained when Arenas's lob returned to earth. That's at least ten fuckups, by players, refs, and the confetti cannon dude, in only 36 seconds. Then later that night the Yankees, including Jeter, booted three ground balls in extra innings to lose a game. It seems to me that people should be screwing up like this all the time. Doesn't anyone understand how hard it is to do things? *** West Coast reader TC writes in with some welcome criticism regarding the previous post, in which I lamented my diminishing intellectual firepower. "...to function normally as a human being." I think this is good-spirited, and it also forced me to learn what the word "homiletic" means, so I appreciate the input. Thank you. *** Joe Monkeyweb asks, "Is Verbungle over?" Well, Joe, thanks for asking. No, it's not over, not officially anyway. But I have been working real hard at the job over the last few days and it has tired me the hell out and left me inspirationless as well (as you can see from this halfhearted entry). I got nothing. And I'll probably have nothing again tomorrow. As time goes on and life becomes more complicated, the bloggin' gets tough. This I now realize. By July I think we might be looking at a weekly post in this space. But first we have to finish the challenges that are in progress...so on to 'em! I like people who throw down idiotic blanket judgments like, "There are two types of people: those who like Field of Dreams, and those that have no heart."* In this spirit, I offer: "There are two types of people: those who like banana-flavored Runts, and Nazis." Damn, now I've got a bunch of these running through my head. Twelve genius points to the person who comes up with the best example of a "There are two types of people: _____ and _____." You may begin answering immediately, and we will stop accepting answers at 11:59pm Tuesday night. Oh, and for ten points, whodat on the left? Answers at noon HST please. * This courtesy of ESPN's increasingly annoying Bill Simmons, who I still read fairly often although 92% of me can't stand the fucker. I will admit that here was a time when I actually looked forward to his columns.
-Left the (gas) burner on for approximately three hours after
making some pasta. I'm off. More than a little off. I think my mind is going bad, a process that may have started all the way back in 6th grade when Jerry Vargas submarined me in the I.S.70 courtyard and I landed on my skull. Only now it's starting to impact my ability to function normally as a human being. Tonight, for a very recent example, I was doing laundry. Our laundry room closes at 11pm, but you can sort of let your last load finish drying around 11:15 or maybe even a little later if you need to. They turn out the lights but the machines still work and you can let yourself in with your key. Pushing it past 11:30 would be pretty rude, though, because there are people who live right above the laundry room and the spinning dryer sounds may disturb them. I don't know for sure. Anyway, I was running a bit late tonight and my loads weren't scheduled to go into the dryer until around 10:35. The dryer cycle takes 50 minutes, so I was already maxing out my grace period if I wanted to let it dry all the way through. When I got to the laundry room at 10:34 to transfer my clothes from washer to dryer, I found myself wondering what I had done with my Bounce fabric softener. As I unloaded the second washer, I found my answer: I had accidentally put the entire box of Bounce in the washer before running my load. That's maybe twenty sheets of fabric softener and a cardboard box. All twenty sheets were floating around in there, and the box had disintegrated and attached itself in hundreds of small brown bits to every item in the machine. For five genius points, how did I choose to deal with this problem? Answers at noon HST please. No luck on the first whodat. That's my luggage, I made it a little too tough considering it was the first one we tried. I have faith in the concept, though, so let's try another. Whodat, or more accurately, whodey? Fifteen points, answers at noon HST. I think Dick Bavetta may have been my gym teacher at some point. I've given this a lot of thought over the years*, and up until now I couldn't come up with a clear-cut answer. Excluding politicians, serial killers, molesters, and people I know personally, who is earth's most loathsome person? Well, I feel like I can finally rest easy, because we have reached a verdict after all that mulling. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present Verbungle.com's inaugural Most Loathsome Human Award to the wholly despicable, scientifically unexplainable Fred Durst (don't click this, it's the official Limp Bizkit site complete with annoying flash and horrible Limp Bizkit music). I don't know how he does it, year after year, but when it comes to loathsomeness, nobody can touch this joker. Good luck to Dave Chappelle with whatever he's going through. May we all be quoting him annoyingly in the near future. * I have come full circle on Bill Maher. I hated "Politically Incorrect" and I always found him to be a smug little toad. But I fucking love his HBO show and I think he's one of the quickest wits in the business. He should probably be removed from the "Terrible Human Beings" list, and he would be, except that I expect that he is indeed a terrible human being.
"Just like the Pistons/Pacers brawl, there will be days that will be talked about for many years. So was the case on May 1st which will go down in history as the 'Clarkson Rumble'. For those who were there the ugly events will leave many of us scarred for many months to come and have put a slight sour note on the promising softball season. At the time of the 'incident' we should have called New York City's finest but alas we did not. So after advice from the Parks Department last week, I was told to file a police report. So I went down to 6th Precinct on 10th street prior to the game this week. I parked my car and went inside and tried to act like a solid citizen. But here is the great irony, I come outside after filing the report and what do I see but a parking ticket on my car, a $95 parking ticket. So I am asking everyone out there in Verbungle land if anyone knows or has any kind of connection with the police or parking bureau because hey I want to get out of it. I was doing my civil duty and I get slapped back into reality with a parking ticket! YES THESE THINGS ONLY HAPPEN TO ME. So please help out a fellow VERBUNGLIAN." If this fails, I suggest we set up a PayPal account to donate money to help D cover the cost of the ticket. No pressure, but if you're feeling sympathetic and you were there on Thug Night you can toss him a few bones. I hereby pledge $8 to get the ball rolling. Since it's unlikely that we'll actually get the PayPal thing going, you could just slip him a bill at the next softball game. Even a dollar would help. Again, no pressure and no judgment if you're not into it. *** I think maybe Joe Monkeyweb is gonna go back to work next week, so this will be the final week of drunk pics. And if he's not going back to work, then the pics aren't doing their job of healing him up, so we'll discontinue them anyway. Heal up, Monkeyman. May there be grilled cheeses in your future. *** I think it was EJ who said that this year's RW/RR Challenge blows. Well, I don't know if I can call it good, but I still say it's one of the more entertaining shows on television. What other program provides quotes like this on a regular basis: "I'm really not intimidated by Mike and his acting like he's this big tough guy because to be honest witchoo I'm not impressed by that. Congratulations, you're a meathead, son. But you know what? Don't ever put your fuckin' hands in my underwear." -Brad, the meathead from Illinois, referring to Mike, the meathead from Ohio, who had just given Brad a severe wedgie that didn't sit well with the Bradster. *** I also liked this quote from Seattle Supersonics Center Jerome James, after the team's star Ray Allen left Game 1 of their second round series with a sprained ankle: "I don't want to even think about not having Ray Allen right now," said Sonics center Jerome James, adding that if Allen can't play, "I am more than ready to step up and play like I did in the last series." James had just "stepped up" to the tune of 4 points and 2 rebounds in Game 1. Those numbers don't exactly cry out "more than ready," do they? Dude, if you're more than ready, this is an excellent fucking time to start in with the scoring and rebounding and stuff. We're down by 20 points here. Are you waiting for a signal or something? NOW WILL DO JUST FINE. I think Jerome needs a nickname. I kind of like Jerome "More Than Ready" James. *** I think we may be winding down here. Let's get on with another stupid challenge. For 20 points, whodat? Ansers at noon HST pleez.
Also played some very good hoops on Saturday. Wheezing and coughing but otherwise OK. I got no complaints. I assume you all heard about the flower box grenade attack outside the building that houses the British consulate here in NYC last week. Somebody blew up a flower box with a grenade in the middle of the night. In one of the early news reports I saw, an Islamic militant group had apparently claimed responsibility. Now I don't want to make light of this, on the chance that it might turn out to be something serious. But how hard are times in your terror cell when you take responsibility for (warning: italics ahead) blowing up a flower box? I don't know if they really did it and were taking responsibility for it or if they just heard about it and figured it sounded pretty cool, so let's say we did it. I also don't know which is sadder. If it's gotten to the point where terrorists are just gonna claim responsibility for anything that explodes, what's next? I'll tell you what's next. This list of Things That Islamic Militant Groups May As Well Claim Responsibility For: 1. The leaky fire hydrant on 53rd and 11th My sleeping patterns have been all screwy lately. I get up tired as hell, struggle through the workday, come home, pass out around 9pm, get up at 11, and then I verbungle deep into the night. Then of course I'm bushed again the next day. I have come to the conclusion that maintaining verbungle.com is slowly killing me. I could quit, but then the four of you would each have seven more minutes to fill in your day. So I will soldier on. But with limits. I am going to set a bedtime every night, and no matter what state verbungle is in at that moment, I am going to hit "publish." Just gotta be done. I'll try to find a nice clean stopping point, but I'm making no guarantees. Came across one interesting tidbit in the Stuytown memoir I'm reading. The woman who wrote it grew up here in the late 40's through the 50's and 60's. Here is the tidbit: "By the time I got my new English three-speed racing bike, the carriage room, which had been good enough for my Huffy Convertible, had been hit too often by thieves and vandals. I kept my bicycle in my bedroom, arm's reach from my bed, and took it up and down the elevator when I went riding after school." So fifty years pass and still the bike room is only safe for crappy bikes. That's a continuing problem. I rode my bike this weekend. Just a little bit. It was great, and I may attempt another ride to work this week. Here is today's GISG, worth 15 points. Answers at noon HST. And here is a hint for last Friday's GISG, which will lower its value to ten points: two "words," three letters each. I think I want to live in the country someday. * Although word on the street is that Brown was
extra-motivated by the recent bashings he's received on this site and on
www.monkeyweb.com 5/6/5: Unsolicited Advice Friday When I was out at the bar the other night for my co-worker's sendoff, I spent a few minutes talking to a guy who used to work for me. That's right, as hard as it is to fathom, there was a time, before I transferred to my new department, when I used to be a boss. A timid, ineffectual boss, but a boss in some small way nonetheless. Valsmal and Joe M. both reported to me at some point. Anyway, I am talking to this guy at the goodbye party, we'll call him Jaco, and he is regaling another guy, who's only been there about a year, with tales of what things used to be like when I was running the show. He made it sound like an absolute free for all, and the new guy was cracking up and shaking his head that such stupidity ever reigned in our office. Jaco told him that I only had one rule: No Throwing Things I don't know if that's completely accurate; I think there may have also been a "No Screaming" rule or something like that.* The ironic thing is that now that I have become a worker bee again (by choice) with no direct reports, one of my favorite things to do in the office is throw stuff around. In fact, that's one of my favorite activities, period. To think that I was denying this huge part of who I am because I wanted to maintain order and (unsuccessfully) attempt to portray our department as a bunch of dedicated professionals is an excellent reminder to me that I made the right decision by getting my ass out of a position of authority. Even small authority. Another thing I don't miss is feeling responsible for the actions and attitudes of other people. Joe and Val were never a problem (except when Joe unleashed his stress by standing atop his chair and squawking like a chicken), but of course some people were. I hated having to discipline people (which is why I rarely did it), and I hated being a dumping ground for everyone's personal problems and disputes. I was the wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time. Here's to my return to good honest shitsacking and to my devastating lack of ambition. *** Dear First Round Draft Picks, Prior to riding motorcycles, please refer to the clause in your contract explicitly forbidding you from doing so. If this language is not strong enough to dissuade you, please refer to the careers of Jay Williams and Kellen Winslow, Jr. If you still feel the need to ride a stupid motorcycle, be aware that you may soon be financially incapable of owning one. You fucking morons. Your Advisor, Hans Q. Bungle ***
When Red Sox fans are feeling sorry for you and telling you how fucked up your team is, it's time to take some action. Therefore, I present the Verbungle.com Outline for the Return to Yankee Dominance. Just a few steps that the Yankee brass can take to get the ship sailing smoothly again. 1. Fire Kevin Brown Immediately. I know firing an athlete is a radical move, especially considering Brown has a guaranteed contract, but I suggest that someone request his presence upstairs and then hand him his walking papers. Give him two weeks' pay and maybe another ten grand in severance, and then simply stop paying him. Sure, he'll sue, and he'll win, but there will be something satisfying about a pitcher with these stats being forced to sue for wrongful termination. I mean, the league is hitting .380 against him. When was the last time the league hit .400 against a particular pitcher? O Elias Sports Bureau, these are the questions Kevin Brown is causing us to ponder. I was recently wondering why I hate Brown so much. Is it just his terrible job performance? That isn't fair, I thought, hating someone for failing when they are presumably trying just as hard as everyone else. Then I remembered a few things, like when he broke his hand punching a wall last September, and it became clear again: The Guy is a Dick. And a creepy-lookin' one at that. He needs to go, even if it means we eat every last dime of his contract. Which is what it looks like we'll have to do. 2. Fire Mattingly. Joe M. has predicted that this will take place, and I can't say I'd be sorry if it did. I know he's a legend, but the facts are that the team is not hitting the way it should. If he wasn't "Donnie Baseball," he'd be gone already, and right now is a time to be ruthless rather than sentimental. Maybe they can find a delicate way to do it, like saying he'll be back as batting coach in 2008. That shit worked in the past. 3. Move Sojo to the vaunted "Bench Coach" role and move Girardi to 3rd base coach. Sojo has proven in the last year and change to be completely lacking in the fundamental skills required to be a 3rd base coach. He doesn't understand game situations, he takes poor, illogical gambles at critical moments, and based on his decisions you'd have a hard time believing he had even a basic understanding of the sport. In other words, this guy is the next Zimmer. A nutjob mascot type with terrible instincts whose job is to sit next to Torre and give him lousy advice that somehow pays off beautifully in the end. What I'm saying is that I think Sojo has magic inside him and we need to tap it. Plus, Girardi was a damn fine baserunner in his day and he seems like a nice, small-minded man perfectly suited to make small-minded decisions like "Go" and "Stop!" 4. Fire Cashman. Why not? The guy had a nice run a few years ago, but based on recent history, if he was your friend and you were at the race track together, you'd be driving him home for his own good right now. Jared Wright? Career ERA: 5.19. And he's pitched over 150 innings only twice in eight big league seasons (and don't look for this season to be the 3rd). By the way, the league is hitting .400 off him this year. A-Rod? A decision based more on ego than on need. And if there was ever a contract capable of impacting the Yankee payroll, it's his. Womack? Nice guy, but not an effective enough hitter to make him an improvement over Cairo. Then there's Kevin Brown and Kenny Lofton and Paul Quantrill and a bunch of other aging stiffs he's brought in over the last few years who haven't paid off. Letting Lieber go was probably a mistake as well. And El Duque? What exactly did he do to make us give up on him? I know his arm was falling off at the end of the season last year, but it's made of rubber and he always bounces back. Even with that arm he gave us 5 innings of 3 run ball against the Red Sox in the ALCS. 5. Acquire a lunatic. Maybe Wells, who's already beginning to wear out his welcome in Boston. What we need is one crazy guy who constantly says and does stupid stuff, to take the heat off the rest of these humorless drones. Most great teams have at least one guy who's either a barrel of laughs or a complete train wreck or both. Someone who keeps the players loose, the fans happy, and the reporters busy. We need one. Pedro would have been perfect. 6. Find a new catcher by next season. Posada is looking very, very creaky. He's still better than most, but it's time to start looking for a replacement. 7. Donate whatever funds are necessary to scouting and developing at least two minor league prospects in the next three or four years. I'm not kidding myself into thinking the Yankees can rebuild their depleted farm system overnight, and I know we'll always be a "buy" franchise rather than a "grow" one, but it's important to remember how much of the recent dynasty came from within. Guys like Rivera, Jeter, Posada, Bernie, Pettitte, etc. Those guys all grew up together (Bernie aside) and they formed a genuine nucleus that was bolstered by acquired stars. If nothing else, growing your own talent means something to the fans. It feels more honest for some stupid reason. 8. Get a real DH. Somebody slow with a big ass who whacks the shit out of the ball on a consistent basis. I just don't have confidence that a post-roids Giambi is ever going to be that guy again. 9. Find our swagger. Even as fans, we need to remind ourselves that we are better than everyone else (even though this is of course completely untrue). I myself struggle with my Yankee affiliation every day, and that is not right. If we are going to be the Evil Empire, we have to accept that title and run with it. No more showing signs of weakness. Stick our chests out and thrust our jaws forward and remind everyone that this is just a rough patch. We are dicks. We are the wolf with the bloody teeth sitting on top of the hill baying at the moon. We can't get all depressed just because we haven't killed in awhile. 10. Give Flash Gordon another month to find himself, and if he's still struggling, get a Super Setup Man from a team looking to cut costs. It seems like these guys sprout up every year or so, and there should be a new one coming in any day now. We'll probably have to give up whatever's left in our farm system, which sort of conflicts with number 7, but that's OK, we have a couple of years to fix that. We should apply this same principle to getting a decent starting pitcher later this summer. 11. Be patient. I know this goes in the face of everything I just said, but these guys are gonna hit. It's only May 6th. They'll probably win 90 games if you leave 'em be. That might be enough to sneak into the playoffs, and while it probably won't be, it's better than stripping everything down and rebuilding now. Rebuilding is for the weak. We are merciless Yankee fans who demand a winning team every year, and now is no time to give up on that principle. I'll never say fire Torre or get a new closer. I feel like we owe those guys the right to decide for themselves when their run is done. Yes, I know this is stupid of me, especially in light of recent evidence that their run may indeed be done. *** Since yesterday's beerdat competition was about as self-indulgent as it gets (who really gives a shit what beer I drank on one particular night in 1985?), and since Deion was there and still can't answer it, I am going to give five genius points to Pete B. for his appropriately sarcastic answer of "I guess a million beers, including the correct one." Right on. Foster's Lager was part of your list, I presume, so you're getting five points. We're also giving MGBC ten points for her guess that some of the drunk pictures from last week were taken at Alligator Alley. She's probably right, and should get the full twenty points, but I am unwilling to fully accept the fact that I ever spent significant time at Alligator Alley, let alone dropped my pants there. Today we just have one contest. A GISG, answers at noon, 25 points on the line. Warning: this may be too tough to waste your time with, but it's Friday so what the hell else you gonna do? Plus, I thought "poopypants" was an easy one, so what the hell do I know? For newbies, here are the rules to the GISG (or Google Image Search Game): 1. I will post an image, CLEARLY LINKED from this page, and
that will be the image of the day. * Anyone who was part of our ridiculous department can feel
free to chime in if they remember more rules. Or if you weren't part of it,
chime in with some rules that every department should have. 5/5/5: Three Digits That Can Undermine Your Suspension of Disbelief Happy Cinco de Mayo and God Bless the Sikma Pivot. May you sneak a sip or two of booze in your lonely cubicle, and may you think of Jack Sikma's majestic locks as you do so. I don't know what the connection is, but let's celebrate anyway. Oh wait, he was born in '55! There ya go. I think it's time for all of us to make that periodic self-examination confirming that we're not negativity-emitting assholes. It's easy to become one; it takes real discipline to avoid the trap. Here are a few questions we can ask ourselves to see if we are negativity-emitting assholes: -Is my first instinct towards my fellow man one of derision
and distrust? Just mull some of that shit over, ya fuckers. I will, too.
I A very nice guy I work with is leaving for greener pastures, so we went out for a coupla beers to see him off. That's been S.O.P. at our office since Day One, as I assume it is at yours. You quit or get sacked, we all go to a bar and drink. It was a nice turnout tonight for this dude, and the place they chose was up my alley: $3 pints of Stella, which I gather was the happy hour price. If so, they were still celebrating happy hour when I left at 8:30, which is pretty generous. Good place. I'd go again if I didn't have to walk through the blood and stench of the meatpacking district to get there. I wonder if I'll ever have a last day, and I wonder who will show up. It would be sad if there were only like 4 of us there, after I gave the place a dozen years of minimum-effort-level 'sacking. I wonder if I get to choose the place. My first choice, the Pinckney Street Hideaway in Madison, Wisconsin, is probably too far away. I think I might go with 7B, for old times' sake. Or maybe Big Jim Lang can just take me to Tad's for the Steak n' Wine Special, like I did for him on his last day. A couple of notes on the wheredats and GISG's from the last couple of days. BA, you are only going to get half credit for your wheredat answer of Sheffield and Addison. I think the intersection is Sheffield and Lincoln, although maybe all three intersect there? You may be able to talk me out of this, but one of the roads there is definitely Lincoln. As for GISG #32, here's a hint: It's one word, and it might be the way you would mockingly address the dude in the picture: "Hang on, hang on, I've got the parking stub here somewhere, Mr. (blank)." We are knocking back the value of this GISG to 15 points because of this hint. To help you while away your workin' Thursday, here is a GISG for 20 points. And for another fifteen points, tell me what beer I was drinking the first time I got really, really drunk in high school. I think it was my sophomore or junior year, and it was a party after one of the school's talent show type thingies.* All answers at noon HST please. Thanks very much to Dan K., whose final iPonderous installment is available today. Very nice job all the way through, and thanks again for the generous empeetreyin'. * Not to be confused with the Apres-SAT bash, when a 16 year-old Deion cemented his legend by going into a liquor store without an ID, and walking back out with two bottles of Schnapps (one peach, one peppermint). And also not to be confused with the first time I got drunk in junior high school, when I had a wine-drinking contest with Tony A. and vomited so fiercely that I didn't touch alcohol for another three years or so afterwards. 5/4/5: 6 (well, 8 if you count M & T) Stories High
First round NBA playoff series in order of watchability (0 = unwatchable, 2 = almost as good as "Jake in Progress", 5 = holds your attention, barely, 8 = riveting, 10 = better even than "Real World/Road Rules Challenge") 1. Houston-Dallas: 9.1 Also, I ponied up the $6 a month so I can get an additional 5 HD channels. Now all my NBA playoff action is in beautiful HD, except, inexplicably, some of the games on ABC. EJ asks: "Do we think Brian C.'s domination of the lyric stumpah will bring cW out of early retirement?" I dunno. I think it's too late for cW to catch the pack on this round of stumpage, so I think he'd be wise to sit it out and avoid a crushing loss like Michael Jordan suffered against Orlando in the '95 playoffs. He needs to rest and come back totally focused if he ever returns. That said, Brian C. has provided him with a real and formidable challenge, should there be a Stumpah III. It will be interesting to watch this develop. I got a call from a good friend today who shall remain nameless. I wasn't at my desk, so he just left a message. Within the span of a sentence, he said "I was thinking of you" and "I just shit my pants." It's good to have friends like that. Book my mom just gave me that I am about to read: "Eleven Stories High: Growing Up in Stuyvesant Town, 1948-1968", by Corinne Demas. I will be sure to pass along any and all squirrel-related passages to you. I went to the doctor for a checkup today. So far, everything's normal*, although I won't get all my blood results until later this week. I purposely wore un-raggedy underwear in case the doc needed to handle my frank n' beans, but she didn't go near it. Do you think she's shy? Aren't they supposed to jostle your frank n' beans once every year or so? Is it because she was a woman that she didn't do it? I hope the f n' b are okay. I also question why the doc didn't say to me at any point, "Look, mac, you gotta lose about twenty pounds or you're gonna keel over at fifty." No mention of losing weight or anything. I guess maybe she was too frightened about the prospect of handling my f n' b, which were bulging visibly through my fresh drawers, and so she lost all sense of professionalism. Oh well, she's better than the crazy Transylvanian vampire lady that cW and Big Jim Lang and I used to go to. Sorry about Snarfgate. Hopefully you'll cruise through today's GISG. And wheredat? 20 points each, answers at noon HST please. Also, just a hint: For multiple-word GISG answers, you should try your guesses both within quotes and without them. Good luck and best wishes to Tony Pierce, who just lost his day job. I've never been fired/let go/downsized/shitcanned, etc. in my life, but I know it can't be fun. I still remember when cW lost his gig at the FN, and we drowned his sorrows at Coyote Ugly, of all the horrible places in the world. He almost got in a fistfight with some guy who had recently been fired for sexual harassment and didn't think cW's dismissal was serious enough to warrant sympathy/free shots. I had to separate the two of them, and once they calmed down, I headed to the john for a piss. Upon my return, I was stunned to see cW face down on the bar receiving a somewhat erotic deep tissue massage from the guy he was about to square off with moments earlier. That's the spirit of camaraderie we all need during tough times. * Except for my Congenital Megaphallus, which may one day require surgery.
It was shaping up like a good day before that, too. I would like to direct your attention to the lyric stumpah today, because something extraordinary has happened. A man named Brian Castro has stepped in and, in the course of about an hour, has solved ALL NINE UNSOLVED STUMPAHS to take the overall lead in the lyric stumpah challenge. This is a performance the likes of which we simply haven't seen before. Not even cW in his prime showed such versatility and well-roundedness. He named songs from Flesh for Lulu, Material Issue, Jurassic Five, Van Halen, Donald Fagen, The Strokes, James, Mudhoney, and Elliott Smith. It was like Barry Bonds in 2001: there was simply no way to pitch to him. And the amazing thing was that Brian hadn't even participated in the stumpah until this outburst. Who knows how many answers he would have gotten had he been playing all along? Of course, just as Bonds' dominance over the years has led to whispers and accusations about performance-enhancing drugs, I'm sure there are going to be some doubters out there who think that Brian must have googled to come up with so many answers so fast. But here at verbungle.com corporate headquarters, we're going to give him the benefit of the doubt and salute his fine work. An all-star performance by Brian C. Well done. So we have a winner in the First Annual Hans Bungle Photoshop Moustache Contest. Some very creative entries, but we have to award the 30 points to Crsmal for his superior photoshopping skills. Here is his entry, for which he will receive 30 genius points. We will give 10 points each to Pete B. and Erin J. for their runner-up entries. For 15 points, wheredat? And here's a GISG. Hint: The answer has nothing to do with any of the text on the picture. Please begin answering at noon HST. If Cap C really caught a Tejada HR ball, he is my new hero. I've never come close to catching a batted ball of any kind at a baseball game. And a HR by the best player on your favorite team to boot. Wow. I don't have all that much to report today. Another Pleasant Valley Sunday, I guess. But we do have a couple of announcements: 1. Congrats to the Koises on the birth of their first child, a daughter born Friday night. The baby came right around when it was expected, freeing up the rest of Dan's summer for softball. Well done, baby. 2. We have been getting some very nice submissions to the verbungle.com "Pin the moustache on Hans" contest. Keep 'em coming. Deadline is Sunday night at midnight. 3. Here's a hint for Friday's GISG. It's one word, but it could have been two. It's on the first page of results. The word(s) makes me laugh just to say it. 4. We have a fine new tale from the suburbs today. That's about it. Hopefully the clouds will hold off long enough for us to play some softball on Sunday. Here's the start of a true story: So it was a good dream. For all I remember, it was better than the one I'm having right now. But it's hard to say for sure. This is good, too. I'm kinda sad to know this is a dream. I guess it's possible that I'm really living this day, and all these things are happening, but I don't really see a way. Too much has happened, and my memories of most of it are way too vague for stuff that supposedly took place in the last few hours. If I thought it were real, I'd probably get real nervous, like the world has gone crazy and nothing's impossible. If nothing's impossible in the real world, there's no point in dreaming anymore. And that's too much to think about. So I woke up from the dream where I was making out with the girl, and of course I was a little disappointed that it was over and it had only been a dream. But that disappointment went away quickly, because I knew right away it was going to be a great day. The sun was out already, high in the sky, and it was a Saturday. I guess that means it's still a Saturday. So I jumped out of bed and I started packing a knapsack. I made a couple of sandwiches. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. I packed a couple of extra T-shirts and a towel, and I left my apartment. See, right there is some proof that this is a dream, because my apartment from this morning isn't the apartment I live in now. It was like some hybrid of a couple other apartments I've had over the years. Although for the life of me I can't remember what the apartment I live in now looks like, so I guess it's possible it's the right place. I left my house and the next thing I remember I was riding in a car with a bunch of friends. We were heading to Philadelphia to see a concert. It was a perfect day outside, maybe 74 degrees. Room temperature, as my friend Rick used to say. So I was riding in this car, surrounded by my friends. They were good friends, specific friends, but they came and went and became other friends a couple of times, and it was around then that I started to suspect it might all be a dream. But I felt so good, and I was so convinced that this was
going to be one of the all-time Saturdays, that I didn't want to acknowledge
that maybe none of it was really happening. I wasn't about to call anybody's
bluff. I was sitting in the shotgun seat, and we were passing a 40 oz. Budweiser
around. The guy behind me kept smacking me in the back of the head, hard enough
to be a little bit annoying but on a day like today who could get mad? I think
Deion was driving. He has this habit where when you come up on a big curve in
the road he'll just drive straight instead of following the curve. He'll
be halfway into the oncoming lane, hoping nobody's coming, and then when the
road comes curving back around he'll just keep going straight until he's back in
his lane again. He kept doing that on the way there, but I didn't feel
nervous at all. I just knew it was going to be a terrific day and nobody could
screw it up. We got to the venue, parked the car, and we drank about three Bud cans apiece in the parking lot. Nobody was in a hurry. For a few minutes, we tossed a frisbee. I remember making one great running catch, one of those catches where the frisbee is so far ahead of you that you think there's no way you'll ever get there, but you keep running anyway because you've got nothing else to do. And the frisbee's just hanging up there in the air, compelling you to keep running. It's practically calling out to you with words of encouragement: "Come on, push it! Run! Almost there!" And on this particular catch, I realized with about twenty yards to go that I was going to make it, so I recalculated my speed and slowed down enough so that I could make the catch look good. Sure enough, when I caught up to the disc it was ankle high, and I just reached out and snagged it with one hand. My momentum kept me going for another ten strides or so, and the guy who tossed it, I think it was my friend Brian, gave me a nice little round of applause. The next thing I remember, we were inside the venue, and it was a rather delightful ampitheater setup. I think I saw a sign that said "Live Aid" on it, but I disregarded it, because Live Aid was in like 1985 and now we're in 1992 or something. Jesus, I don't even know what year it is. Anyway, we were here to see RUN-DMC, and we were totally fucking excited about it. I know it's been a long time since RUN-DMC ruled the world, and I know that it's kind of the end of the line since Jam Master Jay got killed a few years ago. But for some reason none of this matters. It feels like we're seeing them in their prime, and everyone is practically jumping up and down as we wait for them to take the stage. An announcer comes out and he says, "Ladies and Gentleman, RUN-DMC!" And we're all going nuts. And Run and DMC are lifted out of a hole in the stage on some hydraulic platform thing. They're standing next to each other, with their arms frozen together in a high five. Then they jump off the platform onto the stage and they start rapping. Of course we know every word. We're rapping along with them, and they get to the part of the song where they go, "Run...DMC...and Jam Master Jaaay!" and all of a sudden another platform comes out of the stage, and sure enough there is Jay, alive and well like nothing ever happened. We're going absolutely bananas, and the people around us are cheering too. But they're just cheering like Jay's appearance was an expected part of the show. I feel like shaking them by their collars, telling them they're seeing a fucking miracle, because Jam Master Jay DIED a few years ago, and now he's onstage in front of them, spinning his turntables and even taking a turn on the mic here and there. My friends and I seem like we're the only ones who appreciate what's happening on this stage today. The concert goes on for another hour or two, and we all get our money's worth. Jay's resurrection wasn't a gimmick, it wasn't a hologram, it wasn |
If I had to trace it to something beyond teen angst, beyond
the general feelings of longing and alienation and inadequacy that we all feel
from time to time, I would say it might have been my head over heels love affair
with basketball, a sport I had never even tried until 9th grade. It consumed me,
and when I was skipping class, you could usually find me on the courts of
Stuyvesant Town, playing ball with grown men who had once been lost kids like
me. Fuckups who never overcame their bad 2 minute decisions from 20 years
earlier. 
I mentioned this the other day, and I'll mention it again
here. When you are putting in more than minimum effort at the day job, it gets
hard to come home and do the ol' blog job. I've been really busy at work, giving
it my best effort each day, and still when I am getting ready to come home at
day's end there are dozens of small piles of unsacked shit littering my cubicle.
It's just a very busy time right now and it leaves me tired as a one-legged
speed skater when I get home. Then I'll eat a cookie or do some kind of
stupid shit like that, and pass out on the couch in a puddle of drool. 
Guys,
I'm getting stupider. I don't say this to get you all worried. Because I know you
worry. But I think something might actually be wrong with my brain. In the last
few weeks, I've been doing a tremendous amount of dumb stuff. Here's a
partial list:
If
you weren't present for the Night of the Living Thugs last weekend, you might
not know that Dipak got by far the worst of it from the Thug Bastards.
Really, really bad, the type of shit that simply should not happen. He was
physically threatened and harassed, and naturally he was fuming mad when it was
all over. So he decided to do something about it by taking his problem
through the proper channels. Unfortunately, sometimes bad luck sticks with you
for awhile. Here, in his own words, is Dipak's story and plea for help:
Tonight's
softball game has left me with a terrible, terrible, taste in my mouth and I
don't think I will forget it for the rest of my life. I won't go into details
here, but I'll just say there were some assholes on the field when we got there,
and it took us 45 minutes to get them off. In the process, they threatened us
with physical violence, screamed racial insults at us, and generally acted like
thugs. It took me back to 6th grade, and it made me sad to see human beings in
their 30's and 40's going through life like junior high bullies. Sigh. I'd like
to think that people like that get theirs in the end, but the truth is there's
no way of knowing. We can only hope.
