What a goddamned shame.
Still, with plays like this:
...it's easy to start believing in divine intervention.
Like having your best friend berate you.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Nonsensical bloggery
I was listening to Kanye West's album "Graduation" this morning, his third album following "The College Dropout" and "Late Registration." I'm awaiting his next similarly themed albums entitled "Transfer My Credits" and "Office of the Bursar."
A woman in the line for salads (which can be sung to the tune of "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds") a few days ago ordered a small Chicken Caesar. The salad tosser (ho ho) asked her "do you want everything with that?" She replied, "yes...but no onions and no beets." Then you didn't really want everything, did you? Why did you insist, initially, that you did? I would like to give this woman everything...except compassion or pity as I stuff fistfulls of chicken down her eye sockets.
I find that I prefer my head shaved. It's easily maintained. It does, however, clog drains and I've noticed that the shower, sink, and, somehow, the toilet work slowly for a few days afterwards. It could be my imagination. Or, one of my roommates is shaving his ass over the toilet.
Another benefit of a shaved head is that people in my neighborhood assume I'm a racist. I could either chase each passerby down and convince him I'm not a racist, which I'm not, or I could let all of Washington Heights believe I will actually stab them to death with a Bic pen. It's safer, is what I'm saying.
A black woman was standing in the lobby of the building in which I work (a building which houses the CW11) and she was staring at a poster for One Tree Hill. She kept saying to no one in particular "mmmmm...it's my show...it's my show, y'all." It was kind of odd, really.
A woman in the line for salads (which can be sung to the tune of "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds") a few days ago ordered a small Chicken Caesar. The salad tosser (ho ho) asked her "do you want everything with that?" She replied, "yes...but no onions and no beets." Then you didn't really want everything, did you? Why did you insist, initially, that you did? I would like to give this woman everything...except compassion or pity as I stuff fistfulls of chicken down her eye sockets.
I find that I prefer my head shaved. It's easily maintained. It does, however, clog drains and I've noticed that the shower, sink, and, somehow, the toilet work slowly for a few days afterwards. It could be my imagination. Or, one of my roommates is shaving his ass over the toilet.
Another benefit of a shaved head is that people in my neighborhood assume I'm a racist. I could either chase each passerby down and convince him I'm not a racist, which I'm not, or I could let all of Washington Heights believe I will actually stab them to death with a Bic pen. It's safer, is what I'm saying.
A black woman was standing in the lobby of the building in which I work (a building which houses the CW11) and she was staring at a poster for One Tree Hill. She kept saying to no one in particular "mmmmm...it's my show...it's my show, y'all." It was kind of odd, really.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
She's just Jenny from the block
Tooth extractions are always easier when you get to sit in a waiting room chock full of quasi-literate shitheads who happen to be in pain. As I awaited my molar's day of reckoning, I was treated to the incessant moaning of a particularly agonized gentleman who sounded like he was being gently stabbed every two seconds.
"Ohhhhhh...ohhhhhh...ohhhhh...ohhhhh...ohhhhhh"
You could set your watch to it. It was such a half-assed and childish expression of pain, that the women sitting next to me couldn't help but give in to uncontrollable giggling. After a short wait with Johnny Moansalot, my name was called.
Now, the first sign of a good dental experience is blood caked on the dentist's overhead light. I had grown accustomed to NYU's general dentistry wing, which sports bright, shiny equipment and a certain openness. The oral surgery wing, however, is where American tourists are systematically hunted down and slaughtered, their remains left dangling from the exhaust vents to taunt the newest victims. After I sat down and explained my condition to my attending student-doctor (whose name tag, I shit you not, read "J. Lo"), a second person was brought in the discuss the matter of ripping my goddamned tooth out. This latter individual will be dubbed Dirk Studsly, because this poor dope was convinced that he was a lot better looking than he actually is. Also, power and achievement are most awkwardly displayed in a dental school. Dr. Studsly was clearly the top banana, and he let you know it. Unfortunately, because he is a dentist, no one gives a shit. Anyway, Styles McDashing and J. Lo had a little powwow behind me and I heard the following conversation:
GUY LANTERNJAW: You want to do it?
JLO: Uh...
GUY: You can do it. I'll help. Get him to sign the consent form first.
Ah...I'm no detective, but it seems an awful lot like this might be JLO's first time. Luckily, Chisel Axelrod will be so kind as to lead the way. I glanced up at the blood on the light and considered my options:
1. Go batshit insane and escape the oral surgery wing holding moaning guy hostage
2. Start believing in a god
3. Take it like a man
So, I took it like a man. And, I must say, JLO did a fine job. No pain. No fuss. No muss. I will certainly consider her for all of my future tooth extracting needs.
And just to be clear that I wasn't exaggerating about the state of the office, the guy who was sucking the blood from my mouth (with a suction device, not his mouth) exclaimed at the end of the extraction "wow, this is one ghetto cubicle."
And then we all laughed.
"Ohhhhhh...ohhhhhh...ohhhhh...ohhhhh...ohhhhhh"
You could set your watch to it. It was such a half-assed and childish expression of pain, that the women sitting next to me couldn't help but give in to uncontrollable giggling. After a short wait with Johnny Moansalot, my name was called.
Now, the first sign of a good dental experience is blood caked on the dentist's overhead light. I had grown accustomed to NYU's general dentistry wing, which sports bright, shiny equipment and a certain openness. The oral surgery wing, however, is where American tourists are systematically hunted down and slaughtered, their remains left dangling from the exhaust vents to taunt the newest victims. After I sat down and explained my condition to my attending student-doctor (whose name tag, I shit you not, read "J. Lo"), a second person was brought in the discuss the matter of ripping my goddamned tooth out. This latter individual will be dubbed Dirk Studsly, because this poor dope was convinced that he was a lot better looking than he actually is. Also, power and achievement are most awkwardly displayed in a dental school. Dr. Studsly was clearly the top banana, and he let you know it. Unfortunately, because he is a dentist, no one gives a shit. Anyway, Styles McDashing and J. Lo had a little powwow behind me and I heard the following conversation:
GUY LANTERNJAW: You want to do it?
JLO: Uh...
GUY: You can do it. I'll help. Get him to sign the consent form first.
Ah...I'm no detective, but it seems an awful lot like this might be JLO's first time. Luckily, Chisel Axelrod will be so kind as to lead the way. I glanced up at the blood on the light and considered my options:
1. Go batshit insane and escape the oral surgery wing holding moaning guy hostage
2. Start believing in a god
3. Take it like a man
So, I took it like a man. And, I must say, JLO did a fine job. No pain. No fuss. No muss. I will certainly consider her for all of my future tooth extracting needs.
And just to be clear that I wasn't exaggerating about the state of the office, the guy who was sucking the blood from my mouth (with a suction device, not his mouth) exclaimed at the end of the extraction "wow, this is one ghetto cubicle."
And then we all laughed.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
He stunk then and he stinks now
I can't stand Larry the Cable Guy. I thought he was the worst thing out there. Until I saw this clip of Dan Whitney before he became "Larry the Cable Guy."
A toothsome treat
Tomorrow morning, I will have a tooth ripped out of my face. This molar is an incredible son of a bitch and must be stopped at all costs. In fact, I strongly suspect that it knows it's time is near, because it's been stabbing at my jaw all day with its infected roots. Well, it isn't infected at the moment, but it used to be due to a crack in its otherwise pristine shell. You see, pent up rage and frustration is sometimes manifest in intense jaw tension. On a particularly evil day, I could probably turn coal into diamonds with the rottweiler-like pressure my mouth produces. So, rather than an ulcer, I have a cracked molar. And I want the bastard pried from my gums (with a goddamned backhoe if need be).
I keep envisioning the dentist having to place a foot on the side of my face in order to get more leverage in pulling the little shithead out, Looney Tunes style. I also fantasize about a pen's width column of blood spewing out of my face and right into the dentist's eye. Or, ideally, the molar is yanked from my maw with enough force to startle the dentist and the ejected tooth goes careening into the air and out of the window, where it embarks on a journey of self-discovery with a false tooth character called Denny. My tooth and Denny learn life lessons including that one can overcome adversity (such as my tooth being cracked) and that there is no such thing as a "false tooth," just "false intentions." And an Elton John song will swell over the credits as we see the unlikely pair of friends walk into the sunset...or into the mouth of that chick who played the Borg 7 of 9.
Dare to dream.
I keep envisioning the dentist having to place a foot on the side of my face in order to get more leverage in pulling the little shithead out, Looney Tunes style. I also fantasize about a pen's width column of blood spewing out of my face and right into the dentist's eye. Or, ideally, the molar is yanked from my maw with enough force to startle the dentist and the ejected tooth goes careening into the air and out of the window, where it embarks on a journey of self-discovery with a false tooth character called Denny. My tooth and Denny learn life lessons including that one can overcome adversity (such as my tooth being cracked) and that there is no such thing as a "false tooth," just "false intentions." And an Elton John song will swell over the credits as we see the unlikely pair of friends walk into the sunset...or into the mouth of that chick who played the Borg 7 of 9.
Dare to dream.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
A bunch of frags
Last night was my Playstation 3's maiden journey into online gaming. In retrospect, I should've chosen a game other than Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare to attempt online play, seeing as it's possibly the most realistic and frenetic war game I've ever seen. There's an eerie palpability to the environments and to the actual act of killing in the game that is largely unsettling.
What's more unsettling is that, playing online, one gets to meet the sort of people who are drawn to virtually blowing away complete strangers. If a gamer is uncertain of whether or not he is playing an actual human online, he is treated to a stream of insults and expletives from the horde of teenagers who are live-chatting via USB headsets plugged in to their respective PS3s. And what is particularly unnerving is that the voices you hear are unmistakably young and terribly Southern American. Somehow, the thought of teen Arkansans fantasizing about chasing down and murdering Arabs is disturbing. Then again, it is our modern equivalent of playing army and is ultimately harmless.
The opponents may be young, but they're deadly. I would respawn and be shot dead in seconds. To add insult to injury, the game shows you a replay of your death from your killer's perspective, just to summarize what we've all learned during gameplay. For instance, it's inadvisable to look around wildly at the rooftops while standing in the middle of the street. Trying to use a sniper rifle on an enemy who is five feet in front of you is at best awkward and at worst futile, unless you want to get a Hubble Telescope view of his nostril before he blows your fucking head off with a shotgun.
Still, as you play, you learn that violence doesn't pay. Also, you learn that you get upgrades the more you play, so as soon as I can get into that helicopter, TravisBickle343 is going down.
What's more unsettling is that, playing online, one gets to meet the sort of people who are drawn to virtually blowing away complete strangers. If a gamer is uncertain of whether or not he is playing an actual human online, he is treated to a stream of insults and expletives from the horde of teenagers who are live-chatting via USB headsets plugged in to their respective PS3s. And what is particularly unnerving is that the voices you hear are unmistakably young and terribly Southern American. Somehow, the thought of teen Arkansans fantasizing about chasing down and murdering Arabs is disturbing. Then again, it is our modern equivalent of playing army and is ultimately harmless.
The opponents may be young, but they're deadly. I would respawn and be shot dead in seconds. To add insult to injury, the game shows you a replay of your death from your killer's perspective, just to summarize what we've all learned during gameplay. For instance, it's inadvisable to look around wildly at the rooftops while standing in the middle of the street. Trying to use a sniper rifle on an enemy who is five feet in front of you is at best awkward and at worst futile, unless you want to get a Hubble Telescope view of his nostril before he blows your fucking head off with a shotgun.
Still, as you play, you learn that violence doesn't pay. Also, you learn that you get upgrades the more you play, so as soon as I can get into that helicopter, TravisBickle343 is going down.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Sensible shoes
What could be the last in the long line of Air Jordan sneakers will be released this month at the starting rate of $230. Here's the story.
I'm pretty sure that if you're the sort of child who wants these sneakers, you're also the sort of child that in no way deserves them. My finger is completely off the pulse of America, seeing as I don't understand why people would want someone's carpet strapped to their feet.
I'm pretty sure that if you're the sort of child who wants these sneakers, you're also the sort of child that in no way deserves them. My finger is completely off the pulse of America, seeing as I don't understand why people would want someone's carpet strapped to their feet.
Friday, January 04, 2008
31...Best. Age. Ever.
Today is my 31st birthday. Along with my regular spineless moaning, I offer a few observations:
* One's 31st birthday is the first lackluster age he experiences in his life. Seriously. 31? Who gives a shit? People get more excited about celebrating Tuesday.
* It's all downhill from here. At least at 30, one's 20s seem recent. Upon hitting 31, an individual has to realize that he must promptly abandon all hope and whatever ebbing potential he once feebly brandished is now as spent as a crackhead's ten dollar bill.
* Now that he is officially well into his 30s, one must get over the notion that his body isn't rapidly deteriorating like Britney Spears sanity. Jesus Christ, do you see her making it to 31? We'll find her in 31 pieces before we'll see her 31st year. Nevertheless, 31 years requires more intense physical maintenance. Get to the gym, you 31 year old fatbody.
In closing, here's a video of wrestler Giant Silva:
Yeah! Giant Silva is training hard!
* One's 31st birthday is the first lackluster age he experiences in his life. Seriously. 31? Who gives a shit? People get more excited about celebrating Tuesday.
* It's all downhill from here. At least at 30, one's 20s seem recent. Upon hitting 31, an individual has to realize that he must promptly abandon all hope and whatever ebbing potential he once feebly brandished is now as spent as a crackhead's ten dollar bill.
* Now that he is officially well into his 30s, one must get over the notion that his body isn't rapidly deteriorating like Britney Spears sanity. Jesus Christ, do you see her making it to 31? We'll find her in 31 pieces before we'll see her 31st year. Nevertheless, 31 years requires more intense physical maintenance. Get to the gym, you 31 year old fatbody.
In closing, here's a video of wrestler Giant Silva:
Yeah! Giant Silva is training hard!
Thursday, January 03, 2008
She's no angel, he's no saint
This tune popped up on my iPod today. One of my favorites:
Bad lovers face to face in the morning
Shy apologies and polite regrets
Slow dances that left no warning of
Outraged glances and indiscreet yawning
Good manners and bad breath get you nowhere
Even presidents have newspaper lovers
Ministers go crawling under covers
She's no angel
He's no saint
They're all covered up with whitewash and grease paint
And you say...
Chorus:
The teacher never told you anything but white lies
But you never see the lies
And you believe
Oh you know you have been captured
You feel so civilized
And you look so pretty in your new lace sleeves
The salty lips of the socialite sisters
With their continental fingers that have
Never seen working blisters
Oh I know they've got their problems
I wish I was one of them
They say daddy's coming home soon
With his sergeant stripes and his Empire mug and spoon
No more fast buck
When are they gonna learn their lesson
When are they gonna stop all of these victory processions
And you say...
NEW LACE SLEEVES/ELVIS COSTELLO
Bad lovers face to face in the morning
Shy apologies and polite regrets
Slow dances that left no warning of
Outraged glances and indiscreet yawning
Good manners and bad breath get you nowhere
Even presidents have newspaper lovers
Ministers go crawling under covers
She's no angel
He's no saint
They're all covered up with whitewash and grease paint
And you say...
Chorus:
The teacher never told you anything but white lies
But you never see the lies
And you believe
Oh you know you have been captured
You feel so civilized
And you look so pretty in your new lace sleeves
The salty lips of the socialite sisters
With their continental fingers that have
Never seen working blisters
Oh I know they've got their problems
I wish I was one of them
They say daddy's coming home soon
With his sergeant stripes and his Empire mug and spoon
No more fast buck
When are they gonna learn their lesson
When are they gonna stop all of these victory processions
And you say...
NEW LACE SLEEVES/ELVIS COSTELLO
Thursday, December 13, 2007
DAAAAAY-VAD, LEEEEEEE
I went to my first professional basketball game with the hoop-savvy Mugwatch on Wednesday night and I'm still wondering why the New York Knicks employ the Monopoly guy as their court-side announcer.
(in monocle and top hat): "A THREEEEE POINT-AH! NAAAAAAAATE ROBINSON!!!!"
followed, of course, by:
"AND REMEM-BAH TO BUY WAR BONDS AND BEAT BACK THE NAZZIES!!!"
Also, I'd like to point out that of all the major sports, I know the least about basketball. Despite my lack of knowledge, I could still make out that the Knicks stink on ice. To be honest, I was wondering when the JV squad was going to hit the showers and the varsity Knicks were going to stop fucking around and come out to entertain us.
Needless to say, the plight of the Knickerbockers (which is a great name for an animated film...or a porn) has put the fans into an incredibly bad mood. They boo EVERYTHING at a Knicks game. Even if, let's say, you were part of the Make a Wish Foundation and your DYING WISH was to take a shot from the foul line at Madison Square Garden, you had better PRAY that you make that shot.
(insert here the sickening woosh of an airball)
"WHY DON'T YOU DIE TOMORROW, KID!!!"
And speaking of fans taking shots, during the halftime show a small collection ofthugs urban youths were allowed to take a half-court shot and guarantee their spot as a 15 minute pariah when they invariably missed. However provocative this would seem, the Knicks announcer did the crowd one better by introducing one of the contestants as a self-proclaimed Celtic fan.
CROWD: BOOOOOOO!!!
ANNOUNCER: And, he's wearing a Red Sox jersey! (which he was)
CROWD: BOOOOOOOO!!!!
The only additional factoid that the announcer could have POSSIBLY mentioned to get the crowd four seconds from a massive, sweeping lynching is include that the young man also LOVES 9/11. Regardless of this glaring omission, the largest cheer of the night occurred when the Red Sox-loving Celtic fan missed his shot. The crowd occupied themselves throughout the rest of the game with chants of "Fire Isaiah" and "THROW THE T-SHIRT."
One last thought: all of the food vendors at MSG look like Rick James.
(in monocle and top hat): "A THREEEEE POINT-AH! NAAAAAAAATE ROBINSON!!!!"
followed, of course, by:
"AND REMEM-BAH TO BUY WAR BONDS AND BEAT BACK THE NAZZIES!!!"
Also, I'd like to point out that of all the major sports, I know the least about basketball. Despite my lack of knowledge, I could still make out that the Knicks stink on ice. To be honest, I was wondering when the JV squad was going to hit the showers and the varsity Knicks were going to stop fucking around and come out to entertain us.
Needless to say, the plight of the Knickerbockers (which is a great name for an animated film...or a porn) has put the fans into an incredibly bad mood. They boo EVERYTHING at a Knicks game. Even if, let's say, you were part of the Make a Wish Foundation and your DYING WISH was to take a shot from the foul line at Madison Square Garden, you had better PRAY that you make that shot.
(insert here the sickening woosh of an airball)
"WHY DON'T YOU DIE TOMORROW, KID!!!"
And speaking of fans taking shots, during the halftime show a small collection of
CROWD: BOOOOOOO!!!
ANNOUNCER: And, he's wearing a Red Sox jersey! (which he was)
CROWD: BOOOOOOOO!!!!
The only additional factoid that the announcer could have POSSIBLY mentioned to get the crowd four seconds from a massive, sweeping lynching is include that the young man also LOVES 9/11. Regardless of this glaring omission, the largest cheer of the night occurred when the Red Sox-loving Celtic fan missed his shot. The crowd occupied themselves throughout the rest of the game with chants of "Fire Isaiah" and "THROW THE T-SHIRT."
One last thought: all of the food vendors at MSG look like Rick James.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Plane of woe
Achy and chocked full of Mexican food, I took my seat on the Jetblue flight out of Tucson and nervously awaited takeoff. As is custom in my travels, I will invariably be seated next to the saddest, most desperate person on the planet. A woman in her forties sat in my row, turned to me, and asked:
"Are you from New York?"
Ugh. Go fuck yourself. I guess we're talking now and I don't really want to get into the technical stuff like the fact I'm from Pennsylvania nor do I want to get trapped into answering obscure New York trivia for a tourist just before a four hour flight, which would no doubt open up the floodgates for more questions until I find myself telling this woman where to go for the best Brazilian pedicure.
"Yes," I answered.
"Well, my father just died and my mother is suicidal. How long do you think it would take to get up to Connecticut if I drove from JFK?"
Wait...wait, what? There are definitely TWO separate thoughts here. It had a strange blend of personal tragedy and an SAT question:
Jake is on a train traveling north at 4 meters per second. Paul is leaving from the same location, traveling south, at 3 meters per second. If Paul runs out of steam three minutes in, how could you do this to me?
"Uh, well, considering we'll be arriving at 7:30 AM, you'll probably hit a fair amount of traffic. I'd add an hour to whatever you were expecting."
And then I stared at my personal TV screen embedded in the headrest in front of me. Were we done? She didn't want to TALK about this did she? I'm ill equipped to deal my own tragedies, much less the woeful despair of others. I pretended to be enthralled with Animal Planet until I saw her vanish from my periphery. For a long time. So long that it appeared that, maybe, she went into the bathroom to open her veins 30,000 feet above the United States. (It turns out she found a row all to herself in the back of the plane in order to, one would hope, work on her tact in broaching sensitive subjects to complete strangers. Most likely, however, she used the time to figure out how to get into the cockpit and let the pilot know about her father's death, in case he wanted to make an announcement or something).
I suppose some things are so incomprehensible, so devastating, that you can't help but spill your guts to everyone you meet. Or, people can smell my awful fear of awkward situations.
"Are you from New York?"
Ugh. Go fuck yourself. I guess we're talking now and I don't really want to get into the technical stuff like the fact I'm from Pennsylvania nor do I want to get trapped into answering obscure New York trivia for a tourist just before a four hour flight, which would no doubt open up the floodgates for more questions until I find myself telling this woman where to go for the best Brazilian pedicure.
"Yes," I answered.
"Well, my father just died and my mother is suicidal. How long do you think it would take to get up to Connecticut if I drove from JFK?"
Wait...wait, what? There are definitely TWO separate thoughts here. It had a strange blend of personal tragedy and an SAT question:
Jake is on a train traveling north at 4 meters per second. Paul is leaving from the same location, traveling south, at 3 meters per second. If Paul runs out of steam three minutes in, how could you do this to me?
"Uh, well, considering we'll be arriving at 7:30 AM, you'll probably hit a fair amount of traffic. I'd add an hour to whatever you were expecting."
And then I stared at my personal TV screen embedded in the headrest in front of me. Were we done? She didn't want to TALK about this did she? I'm ill equipped to deal my own tragedies, much less the woeful despair of others. I pretended to be enthralled with Animal Planet until I saw her vanish from my periphery. For a long time. So long that it appeared that, maybe, she went into the bathroom to open her veins 30,000 feet above the United States. (It turns out she found a row all to herself in the back of the plane in order to, one would hope, work on her tact in broaching sensitive subjects to complete strangers. Most likely, however, she used the time to figure out how to get into the cockpit and let the pilot know about her father's death, in case he wanted to make an announcement or something).
I suppose some things are so incomprehensible, so devastating, that you can't help but spill your guts to everyone you meet. Or, people can smell my awful fear of awkward situations.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
The Tucson Marathon kicked my ass
I am sunburned and in pain and it took six hours to complete the Tucson Marathon. However, Arizona is beautiful to look at. I might not try running here again, though.
A full video blog to follow when I return Thursday or Friday.
A full video blog to follow when I return Thursday or Friday.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Monday, November 05, 2007
And I don't cheese in a bucket
Hanging out in the "Ho - Hy" receiving section after yesterday's New York City Marathon, I observed an entire team of runners from Holland. They were batshit insane. If anyone who reads this blog is familiar with old Dutch adages, could you let me in on what this one means?:
The only thing this suggests to me is something I've suspected for some time: the Dutch are high ALL the time.
The only thing this suggests to me is something I've suspected for some time: the Dutch are high ALL the time.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
A-Rod is Available, Pricey
New Fanhouse blog here. I can't wait for the pithy comments of teen deviants hopped up on Jolt cola.
Monday, October 29, 2007
That's not shocking
I called it after the All Star break: the Yanks offered a five year extension to A-Rod and he told them to go fuck themselves. And they deserve it.
This, after winning the Aaron Award AND having been voted most "clutch" player. The press in New York should all jump in the East River.
This, after winning the Aaron Award AND having been voted most "clutch" player. The press in New York should all jump in the East River.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Dane Cook is a delight
I'd hate to keep harping on it, but I love Dane Cook. And his Superfinger. The latest video from Fanhouse TV.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Great Dane!
Thanks to Mike Solomon's tutorial, my dream has come true. This simple video test makes me so happy, previous descriptions of joys by even the greatest odists cannot possibly touch my level of ecstasy. Look for this to be implemented in an upcoming Fanhouse vlog.
Thank you, Mike Solomon. Thank you.
Thank you, Mike Solomon. Thank you.
Happy Trails, Joe
Joe Torre was offered a five million dollar contract to return as manager of the New York Yankees next year (with the possibility of an additional three million) and he turned it down. A friend at work suggested that this offer was a public facade to cover up the fact that the Yankees were simply firing Torre and wanted him to be able to save face.
Truth be told, it's a shame that Torre won't be around for the post-Steinbrenner years (which ostensibly begin next year, if reports about his sons taking over are correct), because while the Boss was in charge, it honestly doesn't matter who managed that team. It's funny, I recently rented ESPN's miniseries "The Bronx is Burning" and it paints Steinbrenner as a pigheaded jerkoff. I tend to agree. Even Billy Martin, who was more strong-willed and obstinate than Joe Torre could ever be, had to kowtow to the Boss's authority and watch, handcuffed, as Reggie Jackson was brought in to an environment that had madhouse written all over it. Steinbrenner ran the team like a television network. It wasn't just about winning, it was about drawing people to the stadium with larger than life personalities. Reggie Jackson, Ricky Henderson, Roger Clemens, Randy Johnson, Alex Rodriguez. Each of these players brought with him a name both famous and infamous. Steinbrenner's looking for pennants and championships insofar as they yield ratings. It was a circus in 1977 and it's a circus thirty years later.
Baseball managers have a tough job these days. In fact, with owners and general managers doing all of the meaningful negotiating, it's amazing that they have any pull in the clubhouse at all.
All that being said, however, the idea of Tony La Russa coming in and taking the reins is a good one. But ultimately, does it really matter?
Oh, and as much as I love Don Mattingly and regard him as my favorite player of all time...I question his readiness, as he himself did, to take over as manager. Plus, it can be painful watching him talk as a manager. Yeesh.
Truth be told, it's a shame that Torre won't be around for the post-Steinbrenner years (which ostensibly begin next year, if reports about his sons taking over are correct), because while the Boss was in charge, it honestly doesn't matter who managed that team. It's funny, I recently rented ESPN's miniseries "The Bronx is Burning" and it paints Steinbrenner as a pigheaded jerkoff. I tend to agree. Even Billy Martin, who was more strong-willed and obstinate than Joe Torre could ever be, had to kowtow to the Boss's authority and watch, handcuffed, as Reggie Jackson was brought in to an environment that had madhouse written all over it. Steinbrenner ran the team like a television network. It wasn't just about winning, it was about drawing people to the stadium with larger than life personalities. Reggie Jackson, Ricky Henderson, Roger Clemens, Randy Johnson, Alex Rodriguez. Each of these players brought with him a name both famous and infamous. Steinbrenner's looking for pennants and championships insofar as they yield ratings. It was a circus in 1977 and it's a circus thirty years later.
Baseball managers have a tough job these days. In fact, with owners and general managers doing all of the meaningful negotiating, it's amazing that they have any pull in the clubhouse at all.
All that being said, however, the idea of Tony La Russa coming in and taking the reins is a good one. But ultimately, does it really matter?
Oh, and as much as I love Don Mattingly and regard him as my favorite player of all time...I question his readiness, as he himself did, to take over as manager. Plus, it can be painful watching him talk as a manager. Yeesh.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
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