| 9/30/3: I know I have to figure out the difference between the news of the day and the PFI, but for right now I like it the way it is. Yanks down 1-0. I missed the game, but I heard they played pretty disgracefully. No excuse for that. One of my favorite things about the Cubs making the playoffs is imagining how many times the following conversation took place between Wrigleyville drunks on the night they clinched: "Dude, I'm serious. We are DEFINITELY going to Atlanta for Game
1." I'm sure they all thought better of it the next day. I like people who think better of it the next day. Deion Sandals offers the following astute observation: "Do people in Japan really give a shit about Hideki Matsui and the other Japanese players over here? Sometimes I wonder how much the US media blows it out of proportion - they would have you believe that half of the country will get up at 4AM or skip work to see what Hideki and Ichiro are doing. it is the same way w/ the NBA - if you listen to the sports-casters you would think that Argentine stock market goes up or down in concert w/ Manu Ginobli's scoring average. something tells me it is a case of the US wanting to feel self-important..." You know, after thinking about it, I agree. I had always sort of believed in the image of the Japanese people that's been spoon-fed to me by our media. They are obsessed with kitschy pop culture stuff, they wear hipster clothes and die their hair, they have a lemming-like tendency to get wrapped up in ridiculous trends, and indeed they stay up all night watching their baseball players perform in the states. It's probably all bullshit. I will say that there must be some curiosity because their league is generally (and accurately?) believed to be inferior -- Matsui hit 50 homers there last year, 16 here this year. And I understand staying up all night to watch Ichiro play -- he's just about the coolest, most elegant player I've ever seen. Needs to draw some walks, though. Among the three or four musical couplets that constantly and involuntarily rotate through my head and occasionally spill into my speech are the following: "I went from Phoenix, Arizona all the way to Tacoma...Philadelphia, Atlanta, L.A. Northern California where the girls are warm, so I can be with my sweet baby yeah." and "Two years ago, a friend of mine, axed me to say some MC rhyme, so I said this rhyme I'm about to say. The rhyme was def and it went this way." and The opening scream to "Immigrant Song." 9/29/3: Operating under the false assumption that people are interested in the ups and downs of my daily existence, I am adding a new feature to the site. I am calling it the Personal Fulfillment Index (PFI), and it will measure the amount of satisfaction I feel each day. I think the Day is the perfect unit to evaluate one's progress in life. A month, a season, or a year is too long, filled with far too many triumphs and failures to get an accurate assessment of anything. A day is also cosmically significant; it is nature's most symbolic and cleanly delineated opportunity for us to live, review and renew. I have decided to use a scale of 1-100, like a school test. Just like in school, a 65 is passing, but it's a long way from the honor roll. A 99 or a 100 is a day that happens maybe once a year, when you can do no wrong all day long, and maybe your life changes in some significant way. I am not going to say a 100 is finding $50,000 on the street, or getting elected governor of California, or getting a "special massage" from a movie star, because that stuff doesn't really ever happen. Unless you're Bill Clinton, in which case any one of those things is about an 82. If an event as tremendous as that happens in my life, I will give it 119 or something. In my life, there are going to be some 30s and 40s for sure, because there are plenty of days that go by that feel like tremendous failures to me. But when you string together about 6 or 7 of those, it's time to initiate (or at least talk about) some kind of change. Like maybe growing sideburns or doing situps. Hopefully, this index will help me see what makes me happy and what needs work. We did a little B & E at the softball field on Sunday, but we only had 6 guys, so it became a football game. Lots of fun, but we're all sore today, especially Alexi, who sprained his ankle. Would you believe a soccer player came and walked onto our field and got on his cellphone, and before you knew it there were about a dozen soccer players out there in their soccer uniforms, getting up their own pickup game (I take issue with any sport in which you must wear a uniform for a pickup game)? They were hovering, occasionally straying onto our field, kicking their stupid ball around, even picking up our bat and taking some practice swings. Soccer players have some fucking nerve. If we hadn't snuck onto the field ourselves, there would have been beef. 9/28/3: Ever since I was a kid, I've been a front-runner as a football fan. The Giants and Jets sucked when I first started watching football, so I adopted a team that first season: the 1977 Denver Broncos, with the Orange Crush Defense. Tom Jackson, Lyle Alzado, Randy Gradishar et al. After that season, it was the Steelers in '78 and '79, and then the Air Coryell Chargers (I remember owning horrible polyester Fouts and Winslow jerseys) through the mid-80's. Since then, I've pretty much supported a different team each year or two, including at one time or another the Packers, Giants, Jets and Vikings. I think I have my team this year: the Tennessee Titans. They have a smart coach with a big, fluffy, unironic moustache, and they have one of the toughest, most admirable players in the league in Steve McNair. The mini-explosion of black QB's is the best thing to happen in the NFL since the Fun Bunch. It makes you ashamed that it didn't happen sooner. You wonder how many worthy QB's never got a chance to play because of the racist preconceptions of football talent evaluators. Unless it's one of those elaborate 60's albums, isn't "stereo" an overrated concept? The only time I really need it is when I drop a pretzel on the hardwood floor and I want to hear what direction all the different pieces scatter off to. 9/24/3: Just a couple of pictures I came across today on Yahoo. You may have seen them. Click on this dog.
Now click on this fish, one more sign that Dinny's prophecy (about man's undoing arriving from the sea) is coming to pass. The snakehead (check out the appropriately panicked prose in this article) is now in Wisconsin. It's right out of a sci-fi novel.
9/23/3: Back at work today -- ugh. We need to get those German vacation hours going. Those Germans -- some great ideas, and some REALLY bad ones. Can't figure them out. I thought of a good "two birds with one stone" idea today. His Excellency Mr. George W. Bush was in town to give his big speech at the UN. And it occurred to me: why the hell is the UN in New York? Are there terrorists out there who are feeling wishy-washy about the appeal of our city as a target, and need the UN to make it seem worthwhile? Not only is the UN here, attracting terrorists, but then Big George rolls through, making the terror prospects almost too juicy to pass up. It's like the thirty point buck of the terror world. And with all that terror in the air, it means the security is beefed up like crazy and the traffic comes to a complete standstill. And our already stinky, irritable citizenry becomes even more angry and unbearable. So in response to the fact that New York already has plenty to manage without worrying about the UN, and the fact that things up in Canada are moving slower than the turnstiles at an Expos game, I say: Move the UN to Canada! In fact, speaking of the Expos, let's put the UN inside Olympic Stadium. I just drove past it the other day, and let me tell you: that shit is BIG. Easily big enough to put a UN inside. And the Expos are leaving soon anyway, right? Let's get this done. We could keep the stadium intact and sell tickets to all the UN stuff that goes on, or tear it down and stick the UN with the bill. All the citizens there are bilingual, anyway. Let's let Canada share our terror burden and our traffic headaches. I just took out the garbage, and the communal garbage area on our floor smelled like a corpse's wet fart, I swear to you. I almost threw up. People should show some pride in what they throw out. 9/22/3: I like Canada. I want to make that clear. It's beautiful and clean, the people are kind, and it's much closer than Europe. I just don't know what everybody's doing up here to stay employed. I guess most of the country is probably involved in agriculture or logging or something, but what about the major cities? Shouldn't Canada have produced a more prominent rapper than Snow by now? Shouldn't the Canadians at least have come up with some kind of defining invention, like a car that hovers a foot off the ground in snowstorms? Ambrose listed three major contributions: Canadian Bacon, Canadian geese, and Canada Dry. I saw a guy tonight who owned one of the most heartbreakingly earnest mullets of the last ten years. It was sort of a professional's mullet, a "should I bring the doughnuts for the 9:30 meeting?" mullet, not an antisocial "don't fuck with me" mullet. Still, it was nice and tight along the sides, opening up to full plumage in the rear. Gorgeous. 15 years ago, wearing a mullet was no big deal, just a temporary fashion catastrophe like parachute pants or moon boots. I would estimate that more than 4 million Americans (and virtually every Canadian) wore a mullet at some point between 1986 and 1990. By '92 or '93, the ridiculousness of this style had become obvious to most people, even those of us who at one time rocked mulletz with pride. By 1995 or 1996, the derisive term "mullet" had been adopted to describe this increasingly rare species (perhaps dating to the Beastie Boys' 1994 song "Mullet Head" and the subsequent Grand Royal Magazine article). By 2000, the joke was so old that your father was asking you "What's the story with this 'mullet' thing?" and you were completely over it -- although the mullet itself was still pretty spectacular to behold when observed in the wild. Now, in 2003, network TV has suddenly caught on to this "phenomenon," with a show slated for this fall called "The Mullets." When this show airs, it will presumably cast a bright and merciless light into every nook and local tavern across the nation, exposing the mullet as a laughingstock to even those last few proud practitioners. The days of the unironic mullet are numbered, friends, so when you see one, don't point at it or reach for your camera (or write about it on your website). Like the buffalo and the American Indian, this once-proud symbol of our great land has been hunted to near extinction, and we should do all we can to let it live out its last, lonely days in dignity. As a Yankee fan, and as a baseball fan in general, I am tickled pink whenever the Red Sox stay in the race this long. There are only two things that can happen, and they're both good. One, the Red Sox find some creative new way to throw the season away at the last minute, as they have in so many of these last 84 empty years. Or two, somehow, THIS is the year. The year when the Red Sox win it all. How cool would it be to see that? It's like Halley's Comet, except you don't know when it's gonna go shooting by. Let's do some half-assed math. Many of us know that he last time the Red Sox won the World Series was 1918, with Babe Ruth winning two games as a pitcher. Now, I have my doubts as to whether Babe Ruth ever existed, but that's a discussion for another day. The attendance at the deciding game that year, which was played at Fenway Park, was 15,238. Let's assume that all 15,238 were Red Sox fans. There was no TV, so there were at most 15,238 people who saw the Red Sox win that World Series. To have any hope of remembering the game for more than a few weeks, you had to be at least 5 years old at the time. So the only people who saw and remembered the game were born before 1914. The youngest person alive today who might have possibly seen and still remember that game would now be 90 years old. A quick check of the survivorship rates for people born in that era indicates that 1,800 people out of 100,000, or 1.8%, could expect to live to be 90 or over. So out of the 15,238 in attendance that day, if they were all 5 years old, maybe 300 survived to this day. Of course, at a typical ball game, maybe 1 in 15 fans is 5 years old or so (statistic courtesy my ass). So say 20 five-year-olds out of the 15,238 fans survived, plus a few more who were over the age of five. Let's be generous and say 30 people who saw that game are alive today. Let's be super-kind and say that all 30 are still functioning mentally. These 30 deserve a championship. They're probably hanging on for just that purpose. By contrast, the last time the Yankees won the World Series (2000), millions of people saw it and are still alive. More than half of the dogs who saw it are still alive. In fact, there are probably thousands of hamsters (life expectancy: 3 years) who saw that series and are still running around on their little wheels, waiting to see what happens this season. I'm not sure what any of this means, but it allows me to post the following statistic:
Living human beings who have seen the Red Sox win a World Series
@ 30 (generous) For a person to see the Red Sox win two World Series in their lifetime is a miracle. And for a hamster to see the Red Sox win ONE -- that's pretty special, too. Think of all the hamsters that have lived and died between 1918 and now -- not a one of them ever saw it happen. But for a hamster to see the Yankees win two is really no big deal. So I guess we should all be rooting for the Red Sox this year, for the sake of 30 men and millions of hamsters. 9/18/3: Up in Canada for vacation -- I mean no insult by this, but what do they do up here? I mean, I know a lot of famous actor/comedian types come from up here, and I know that a lot of movies are shot up here because of the cheap labor. And I'm sure there's lots of business that goes on here, blah blah. But they never seem to come up with any really cool stuff. I'm sure I'm wrong, so somebody let me know. One thing they do in Canada is continue to show the "I've fallen and I can't get up" Life Alert bracelet commercials. They recommend that all senior citizens wear these things, so if they collapse ill, they can hit the button and an ambulance will come. I agree wholeheartedly. What a great idea. In fact, I don't see any reason we shouldn't all be wearing these things, regardless of our age and physical well-being. How nice would it be when you are stumbling home drunk, and you've already lost your wallet and cell phone, to just be able to dial up a little help? It would be even cooler if the button could be tied to whatever service you needed most often. I guess that's actually called a telephone. Still, it's cool. 9/16/3: I miss AOL. I mean, it's a shitty, overpriced, inferior way to use the internet, but it's fun and I miss it. I miss all the stupid little icons and the sense of anticipation when you heard "You've got mail," even when you knew it was 99% spam, with titles like "Connie gives head with the best of em." I miss the main screen (Pete's screen?), the one you could never completely close out of, the one with all the products and stuff and links to news stories that opened up in windows that weren't real internet windows but were like a mini-AOL-internet within the internet. I miss my Buddy List, as stupid as that sounds. I've signed up for AIM, but it's not the same. I miss the old chat rooms where you could go and fuck with people. I miss being part of this monolithic beast that everybody was bitching about, but everybody still used. I miss the dorky inclusiveness of it, the fact that your parents were basically having the same internet experience as you were (assuming they were aware of all the same sketchy neighborhoods as you). There's a lot about it I don't miss, too, but if I could get the "Bring your own access" package for like $2.99 a month, I'd sign up again. But those fuckers want like $14 or something. Screw that. In news from three years ago, I encourage anyone who hasn't done so already to check out metafilter, which is one of the many sites my friend Chris recommended to me. It's no sublime directory, but it's a great index of interesting sites, and it's augmented by high-minded (and occasionally witty) comments by high-minded folks with sideburns and cool glasses. Or at least people who pretend to have sideburns and cool glasses. Yanks are gonna win 100 games. I apologize to my brother-in-law Scott, who hinted that this was the case a couple of weeks ago, only to be doubted by me. Although I did predict it early this season. And you could look it up. Another great fucked-up baseball play, this one tonight in the Yankees-O's game. Yanks had a men on second and third, the batter hit a slow roller to first. The pitcher got over to cover and missed the base with his initial attempt to step on it. Then he stabbed it on his second try, clearly before the runner arrived. But the umpire ruled safe. The pitcher took a glance towards home, where one unpreventable run had scored, and then turned his back to the plate so he could properly bitch out the umpire. After about three seconds, the first baseman came up to the pitcher and actually had to tap him on the shoulder to let him know that the other runner had rounded third and was thinking about scoring. What a great sport baseball is: "um, dude...uh, dude...you might want to check the...uh...runner...um, DUDE! LOOK at the RUNNER on THIRD!" Finally, the pitcher pivoted and looked towards home, and the runner wasn't really even making a move. The pitcher, who was pissed and anxious and generally a bundle of nerves, threw home anyway, about 20 feet over the catcher's head, and about 12 rows up into the seats. The runner trotted home. 9/13/3: You know what football rule always seemed exceedingly harsh to me? If you are running towards the goal line and you fumble through the end zone, the other team gets the ball on the 20, even though they didn't recover it. The fumbling team should get the ball back on the 20 and lose a down, that would be sufficient punishment -- it would be like a 20-yard penalty. I was flipping through channels tonight (that's right, Saturday night) and I came across an episode of "Three's Company" on Nick at Nite. I haven't watched an episode in years, but I felt some sort of cosmic responsibility to give ol' Jack Tripper a few minutes of my time in honor of recent events. I think the last time I watched the program was like the summer of 1984, when my friends and I would go play ball, get exhausted in the heat and head back to my parents' apartment to find some relief in the A/C. We would inevitably flip on the tube and watch bad syndicated sitcoms, including "Three's Company," on channel 5. It was a pretty boring, nondescript summer, and to this day I don't know why I wasn't out trying to pick up girls or smoking pot or visiting cousins who knew how to pick up girls and smoke pot. Since that summer, the show has always held an extra layer of misery for me, in addition to the "Gilligan's Island" sense of "in the end, no matter what we do to try to improve our lot, everything will get all fucked up" hopelessness. But watching it in the wake of Big Jack's passing gave it multiple new levels of sadness. Not just because we lost an enthusiastic and talented comic actor, but because I had forgotten just how dismal the lives of the characters were on that show. Especially Jack. I mean, other than his vague dream of becoming a chef, all Jack wanted in life was to get laid. And I don't remember that happening once. Sure, he'd talk about hot dates he'd had, but it always seemed like the NEXT date was going to be the one where all the magic happened. And then Larry or somebody would screw it up. As a matter of fact, NOBODY on that show ever got any significant action, which is an indication of how tame TV was then, I guess -- it was regarded as a "jiggle" show and was thought of as a bit risqué at the time. How implausible that none of the roommates would ever share a roll in the hay with Jack. On tonight's episode, the female roommates (who at this point numbered three: Janet, Teri, and that other blond woman, the one who used to date Reggie Jackson, the one who I believe was supposed to be Chrissy's cousin -- I guess the producers weren't sure which of the two new blondes to commit to) were making a kite, which they were then going to fly. I swear. This was something they all seemed really excited to do, and of course Jack broke the kite twice, preventing them from fulfilling their dream. These are four robust young people who must be bursting with sexual energy, and their good times are hinging on literally flying a kite. Talk about real hostility for your characters -- the writers made LA seem like the darkest, loneliest place on planet Earth, a place where young attractive people made weekend plans to sail a communal kite. Here's an idea, guys: why don't two (or three, or four) of you retreat to somebody's bedroom and enjoy a nice afternoon screw? At one point, they ran out of paper with which to make a (3rd) new kite, and they all were staring at each other as if to say, Now what should we do? I bet poor Jack had a couple of options in mind. And now it's too late. 9/12/3: R.I.P. Johns Ritter and Cash, forever linked in death as they were in life. You know how sometimes you're tossing a frisbee around and the person you're tossing it with gives you a throw that looks like it might be too high to jump for, and it also looks like it will fly too far beyond where you're standing for you to run after it and catch it? So you stand there paralyzed for a minute (well, not actually a minute, but a frisbee does move in slow motion when thrown properly) as it's heading towards you, and you're trying to evaluate whether a leap is in order, or if you should start trying to sprint after it and catch it when it's at a lower altitude? And then as it gets closer you realize that it really is gonna be too high, low enough that maybe you could have caught it a couple of years ago, but now you're a little too old and maybe a bit heavy and you might just look foolish jumping after it and completely fanning or falling on your arse? So you decide to run after it, but at this point you've wasted a good second or so debating what to do, basically watched it fly right over your head, and now it's gonna be a hell of an effort to try to catch up to it, and as you run after it you realize that if you had just taken off a little earlier it would have been a routine catch? And you get there a little too late and it drops just beyond your outstretched lunge? Well, that's what makes frisbee so much fun, right there. My advice is to commit to a leap as early as you can (in the same direction as the frisbee is traveling, so you can start running if you miss it), and if you fall short, so what? Sure, it would probably be safer to just start backpedaling as soon as you sense the errant (or intentionally long) throw. But how often in this world do you get to leap at something, especially as the years add up? There are plenty of opportunities to run as you get older (catching a bus, avoiding a mugging, getting out of a rain storm, helping a charity), but not very many to take a good flying leap. Go for it. Sometimes you don't know exactly what a word means until the minute you see it happen right in front of you. Today I saw a guy squiring a model around Union Square. He was about six inches shorter than her, and they had their elbows locked, and he was handling her so carefully, and I just thought, "Check out the guy squiring that model around town." I think that was the first time I ever thought to use the word "squire," except when talking about that guy who was Toyota's nameless pitchman for like 19 years and then they suddenly started referring to him as "Squire." Oh, and Billy Squier. I saw an interview with newly-reunited Simon and Garfunkel, and they were talking about how dear they are to one another, and how they've gotten too old to let egos get in the way of them being together and touring together. I could accept it if they just said, we really don't like each other, but this is too good a financial opportunity to pass up. Or, he fucked my wife, but I've forgiven him. But egos? In Simon and Garfunkel? How insecure is Paul Simon (or how inordinately egotistical is Art Garfunkel) that egos could be a problem? Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon didn't have ego problems - Ed laughed at Johnny's jokes, that was his gig. No reason to screw that up with ego problems, same goes for Art Garfunkel lending his pretty voice to Paul Simon's songs. Re: Kurt Warner. You know you're feeling a little insecure about your starting position when you start trying to deny your concussion. 9/11/3: Pixies reunion. Exciting news or big mistake? Or good idea five years too late? Who's your dream/nightmare reunion? I'm holding out for Jack McDowell to get his band Stickfigure back together. I'll grab my gunnysack and hit the road with 'em. So I got this fancy new computer, and when I play an audio CD, the fan goes into overdrive and the whole unit starts vibrating like it's gonna blow. I already took it in and got a new one, and the problem persists. What a pain. So lame. But I gotta keep it in perspective. There are people on this earth who are so much less fortunate than me -- people who have three and four year-old computers. My heart goes out to you poor suckers. So it's been two years. I could sort of believe that, it made sense, and then I got caught up in watching some of the TV coverage tonight and it took me back so fast and made me cry several times and it all seemed like just a few months ago. No matter how much time goes by, I still can't really come to terms with the firefighters, and especially the regular citizens, who were going back up into the Towers to help others. And then they all just got crushed there. And there's no accounting for all those courageous people and how many people they saved. There are just anecdotal stories and the rest of it is all lost in the chaos. I remember in 1996, I was naively saying to myself, wow, it's 1996, this is a pretty modern world. I can't imagine things have any room to evolve much further. I mean, I guess I felt that way in 1981 and 1989 and 1993, and every other year as well...and then of course time passes and you look back at how primitive things were and you feel like a fool. But I remember consciously telling myself in 1996, this is about as far as the world can go in every direction. Technology, music, humor, the fierce definition of my abdominal muscles -- I just couldn't see what could possibly come next. Even the word itself -- "1996" --sounded like something that would impress future civilizations when they dug through the remnants of our society. And now I look back on my life then and it seems like Walton Mountain. In fact, I feel the same way about the rosy-cheeked schoolkid I was back in 1999. Remember the Y2K and millennium terror fears? We had things so easy in our simple little world -- I could pull my balls out on the street and I didn't even need a reason. It was 1999, for God's sake. The question is, what's going to happen between now and 2007 that's going to make 2003 seem like the sweet little paradise that it probably is? I'm not sure, but I think some guy named Billy is going to be right in the middle of it. 9/9/3: Rode home up the West Side Highway bike path tonight. That's what I do when it's nice out and I have a little extra time. It's one of the redeeming things about this filthy town, you get a little sea breeze in your face as you speed down your little bike lane. Of course, the sea smell isn't a real sea smell -- it's a combination of chemicals, dog shit, bum, dead bird and a little bit of sea tossed in for flavor. Plus, the view is of industrial/residential Jersey, not exactly the white cliffs of Dover. But it's what we've got, and it beats 11th Avenue, which is about as bumpy and ugly as Seal's face after a bad shave. Thought I'd get another Seal comment in there. Anyway, after I finished riding up the path and started making my way back up towards civilization this evening, I saw something that caught my eye. As I rode up the inclined walkway at what is approximately 68th street (this part of the ride being a lazy New Yorker's excuse for exercise), I saw two dog-walking guys who apparently had just run into each other. They seemed to know each other, because they were chatting away while their dogs had their own little catching-up session. Both dogs were pugs, which may have been why the owners originally introduced themselves to one another. Some people think pugs are cute; I am not among them. Anyway, the pugs were wrestling around and doing doggy (and I spell doggy with a "y" and not an "ie" because it brings up approximately 250,000 more google hits) things. While the guys were half-paying attention, one of the dogs got his little arms wrapped around the head of the other dog, so he was sort of in that doggy-mounting pose (which never fails to crack me up), but facing the wrong end of the dog (the face, and not the tush). Sure enough, the top dog started...well...fucking the other dog's head. Not actually penetrating of course, but going through that wild thrusting motion that we're all familiar with (if we watch dogs in the dog run or have the Discovery channel). This dog was absolutely certain that he was doing it like he was born to do it, and after about 30 seconds the owner dudes caught on. The guy who owned the aggressor said, "Take him! Take him, Tommy!" I have a sick feeling that the Yankee season will end with Mariano Rivera walking towards the dugout in defeat as the other team pounces on one another in celebration. I love his dignity and the stoic way he carries himself in defeat -- he always stands up tall, with his shoulders pulled back, even though you know he's crumbling inside. I hope we don't have to see that 2001 scene again. 9/8/3: I was thinking about how Seal claimed that those big scars on his face just spontaneously appeared one day. How full of shit is that guy? There are three real possibilities for how he got those things: 1) He was born with them. My fantasy football team is 1-0, baby. I sense a championship run. I look at my team, Nimphius, as the '85 Bears updated for the 21st century. We're shuffling on down, doing it for you. 9/7/3: I was recently reading about some of the latest supposed terrorist threats against the U.S., and one of the things they're worried about is someone poisoning the water supply or the food supply. I'm sure we've beefed up security at the large reservoirs that supply drinking water to all our major metropolitan areas, but what about one of the most depended-upon drinking water sources for wealthier Americans? I'm talking of course about the Poland Spring, located on the outskirts of Chelm, Poland. Since the spring is technically under Polish control, I'm not sure how much involvement the U.S. can have in its security. But I think that Americans who wouldn't dare drinking nasty tap water deserve the same kind of protection as the lower-class types who will never truly comprehend the refreshing, nuanced flavor of Poland Spring. Michael Kay may have a rival for shittiest announcer currently working in TV -- the entire ESPN Sunday night NFL team: Theismann, Patrick, and McGuire. These guys are appalling, which is a real shame because the Sunday night games always turn out to be really exciting. I am not certain about this, but I think tonight Paul McGuire hinted that the Tennessee Titans coach (who is white) would like to physically hang a black player who had just made a boneheaded mistake. The other two guys chuckled and agreed. That kind of insensitive asshole remark is only part of what makes them suck. They also go way over the top in deifying and blaming players -- when the result of the play supports their argument. For instance, when Steve McNair scrambles and picks up 15 yards, while tucking the ball safely away, it's "There is no QB in football who does a better job of protecting the ball than Steve McNair. Other QB's should watch him and take notes." Then, ten minutes later, McNair is waving the ball around like a grapefruit in his outstretched hand through heavy traffic, and yet he doesn't fumble, so they don't comment on it. All three of them also talk really LOUD. They're buffoons and I want to give each of them a blood-drawing skull-bite. It's an oldie, but I think that Prince's "I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man" belongs near the top of any list of perfect pop songs. I went to my first memorial service today. What a strange experience. On the way to the funeral home, I couldn't help thinking how little the world is affected by the death of this one man. People were out enjoying the beautiful day, playing in the park, riding bikes, walking their dogs, buying ice cream. It seemed unfair, almost disrespectful -- I guess I wanted to believe that when we leave this earth, there is some huge recognition for what we've done, everybody takes some serious time to stop and reflect on our lives, and things are never quite the same without us. It just made me think about how puny each of us is in the face of this giant, swarming planet. I guess we can take comfort in that, too -- you could say that it's nice to know there will still be good times (and bad, of course) after we're gone -- the sun's gonna shine regardless. But it really breaks my selfish heart to think of the universe leaving me behind. I am not looking forward to it one bit. I think you should take a look at this photo of Art Garfunkel and his son. 9/6/3: In another of what I assume will be many concessions to the ghastly process of aging, I purchased an electric nose and ear hair trimmer today. It works great -- in my nose. I think I have four or five years left before I have to tackle the ear hair problem, but it's nice to know I'll be prepared. My friend Josh was on "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" this week. I
would like to take this opportunity to disagree with the entire premise of the
show (other than the fact that you get free shit). Again, within the gay and straight classifications, there are an unlimited number of styles that people actually choose, but for the sake of this discussion, let's all assume that the five gay men on the show represent the gay "style," and the hapless straight guys they make over represent at least a significant portion of straight guy society. The gay style is marked by a strict adherence to the gay uniform, which means wearing those "shiny shirts," as my friend Chris calls them, flat-front pants from Banana Republic, and well-polished black leather shoes. That and a gym-buff body, a biffed-up haircut, a desire and/or ability to dance, and you're on your way to being "stylish." What the show fails to acknowledge is that straight men aren't really concerned about "style" for style's sake; we want to look just good enough to attract members of the opposite sex. This is the extent of our interest in what they might refer to as "style." And we don't need to be rescued; we've been doing a great job of it for thousands of years. Most women I know who are attracted to straight men don't really find the gay uniform appealing, even if it presents the male figure in what might be considered an aesthetically pleasing light. Women see straight men's real style -- it's in our insouciance, our ability to ignore them when they need us most, our general indifference toward all the things that they care about in themselves, like "style." Our lack of polish, our ability to be comfortable in our own skin, our refusal to make a genuine effort to look good -- it's all style. That's why you see scrubby-looking dudes walking down the street with beautiful women all the time -- women don't want guys with excessive amounts of "style." They want a guy with self-confidence, a sense of humor, and maybe a prestigious career. Oh, and a big penis. Don't let anyone tell you they don't like a nice big penis. Pete sent me a McSweeney's link that made me feel a bit sad about my lists page. In it, there was an excellent list of Queer Eye Spinoffs. 9/4/3: I think it would be very easy for an NFL offensive lineman to pass-block against me. Newly-retired Tommy Franks was on Letterman last night. 60 Minutes or Larry King I could understand. But Letterman is such a silly show, it seems sort of inappropriate to welcome the general whose army is still in the middle of volatile situations as they try to wrap up controversial wars in two different nations thousands of miles away. And whenever they have "serious" guests on, Dave comes across as either incredibly naive about world affairs or just too deferential in his interviewing. Franks looked tan and healthy and happy as hell to be done with all that shit. Dave asked him the following: "Doesn't what we're doing over in Iraq run the risk of having the exact opposite effect than we want it to? With all the chaos that's still going on, isn't it possible that in the end we're alienating muslims all over the world, and creating more hostility towards the United States, instead of making things better?" Now, this really isn't a question for Tommy Franks. You ask Tommy Franks how best to kill large numbers of people; it's not his job to offer a philosophical stance on the war or even a qualitative evaluation of how things are gonna shape up in the long run. But since he was asked, he says, "Dave, the United States is going to continue to do what it needs to do in Iraq." One of the all-time non-answers, and the entire crowd starting cheering like the Dog Pound on Arsenio. Then Dave asked, "What do you make of this report that Osama Bin Laden held a summit for 5,000 terrorists in the mountains of Afghanistan?" Franks goes, "David, I feel very strongly that there is not a place in the entire world where 5,000 terrorists can meet without us killing them." Again, HUGE cheers. Dave says, "Thank you, general. I think we all feel a lot better hearing that from you." Ugh. 9/3/3: Where do the Red Sox find all these interchangeable white dudes with ugly moustaches or scruffy goatees who hit .290 with around 20 HR's? There must be about 30 of them on that team. They're pretty gross. And then I heard the YES announcers talking about how David Ortiz reminds them of Mo Vaughn. It's amazing how people of one race have so much trouble distinguishing between members of another. I guess he looks similar in that he is a large, lefthanded batter with dark skin wearing a Red Sox uniform, which is something that only comes around once every fifteen years or so. That brings up another question. How can the Red Sox (and the Yankees, for that matter), who were among the last teams to integrate, still be so lacking in African-American players? I know that African-Americans are slowly disappearing from major league baseball in general, but when was the last time the Yankees or Red Sox had a significant number of blacks on the team? Newly purchased technology is like a new love interest: at first, it's all you can think about, and you can't wait until the end of the day when you'll be together. You brag about it shamelessly to your friends and you ignore everything else in your life. And then eventually the passion levels off, and the relationship becomes one of mutual respect and support. Until finally one day you roll over in bed and look at each other, and you wonder, "Who are you? How did we get to this point?" Unless, of course, you have one of those new DVR's from the cable company, in which case it can last forever. All the "Law and Order" shows, including the original, are hokey bullshit. 9/2/3: When I was a kid, my dad had a friend named Tom O'Malley, one of the funniest, most troubled, most entertaining and complicated men I've ever come across. He was the guy on "Candid Camera" who walked down the street with a cohort, pretending to carry a giant pane of glass, when actually they had nothing. People would scatter to get out of their way. He was a riot. Anyway, he loved baseball, and the Cubs in particular, although he developed a guilty taste for the mid-80's Mets late in his life. He used to say the great thing about baseball is in any given game, you could see something you never saw before. I guess it's true for just about every sport except swimming, but baseball does provide some crazy-assed moments. Remember the time two Yankees tried to score on a base hit against the White Sox, only to discover Carlton Fisk was waiting with the ball at home plate? He tagged the first guy, who tried to knock him over, and then gathered himself and tagged the second. That was the first time I ever saw something like that. Tonight, I was watching the Mets game, because Real World hadn't started yet, and there was something soothing about the rain, empty Shea Stadium, the Mets being the hopeless Mets again, and Fran Healy behind the mic. It took me back to 1978, the year my parents got divorced and I spent a lot of time alone watching Mets and Yankees games and listening to Fran Healy call Yankee games on the radio. The Mets were pathetic that year, although there was some interesting talent in Craig Swan, Joel Youngblood, Lee Mazzilli and Steve Henderson. Healy just had (and still has) that old-timey baseball voice that makes everything seem like it's gonna be OK. Well, I was watching the game tonight, and I saw a fucked-up crazy baseball play that I've never seen before. With a runner on second, the batter hit a line shot right back at the pitcher, Mike Hampton. It knocked his glove right off, and caromed back towards the first base line. Hampton took off sans glove towards the ball, which was now rolling into foul territory. Hampton made a slick move to avoid colliding with the runner, and then dove onto the ground to try to pick up the ball and, hopefully, make a throw to first. Unfortunately for him, he couldn't quite smother it, and his catcher, Javy Lopez, had also come running out to try and make a play. Hampton and Lopez collided, and the ball squirted free. At this point, there was no longer hope for a play at first, and the runner who had been on second rounded third and noticed that nobody was covering home. He made a mad dash for the plate, and Lopez ran and picked up the ball and began racing to the plate as well. The runner arrived a split second before Lopez, scoring on a bizarre RBI single. It was pretty awesome. Tom O'Malley would have loved it. Also, Mike Piazza's batting music is "Immigrant Song." 9/1/3: It always bums me out when I go to a store that's not really that well-managed, and the lines are getting long because somebody has a customer service situation at one of the registers, and people in line start grousing about what's going on and how this is bullshit and who's running his fucking place. And sometimes they'll dramatically throw down their merchandise and defiantly stomp off the line muttering hateful words, as if they are going to teach this store a lesson it won't soon forget. It just blows me away that people can continue to expect excellence in retail line management after countless disappointments. You see a long line, there is no reason to become angry. You have a choice: to either get on the line, or not. If you are just completely offended by the mismanagement of the store, and how it reflects badly on our great nation, you could talk to the manager or send a letter to the corporate headquarters. Otherwise, just accept the fact that some lines can be long and slow and there's not a thing you can do about it.
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Yankee references this month: