Fantasy

I hate to admit it, but this year I caved. I went in kicking and screaming, but I caved.

I'm in a fucking fantasy baseball league.

For years, I have scoffed at, ridiculed, shunned, and wanted to kill anyone who was in a fantasy league. You know those stupid conversations you hear between two morons at a party; the ones that are only slightly less excruciating than listening to two guys talk about their golf games. They go something like this:

Moron 1: I needed J.J. Putz to get a save last night.
Moron 2: He's been great all year. He's got 38 saves, and a lot of strikeouts.
Moron 1: Yeah, but he screwed me last night and my league doesn't count strikeouts. Who's your closer?
Moron 2: Mariano.
Moron 1: He's good.
Moron 2: Yeah, but he's no Putz.
Me (hate-filled thought bubble): You two are a pair of putzes!

Yes, there really is a player named Putz (see photo) and yes I have become both Moron 1 and Moron 2. I try to reserve this type of dialog for times when innocent bystanders don't have to listen to it, but sometimes I don't. I also have a constant eye on my computer screen almost every evening, as it updates my fantasy game real-time. I also find myself staying up until 1:30 am on a Tuesday, watching Anaheim vs. Seattle on my laptop.

I mean, how noble is it to root for a Major League team or any team nowadays. These blood-sucking players and even more blood-sucking owners don't give a shit about me or any fan anymore. They played a game until 4:30 AM the other day, for crying out loud. I'm a Met fan and I'll root against specific Mets sometimes. I don't give a fuck. Like Seinfeld said, rooting for a professional team is like rooting for laundry. I figure I might as well have a stake in it, especially when the guys in my league are the biggest cock-sucker, blowhards on Earth. When they invited me to play, they needed a guy and they thought I'd be a pigeon. They can blow me now, because I wrapped up the best overall record in the league this week....oops, there goes Moron #3 - sorry.

Oh and of course I'll be doing Fantasy Football. At least I'll only be wasting two nights a week for that.

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Speaking of Football (no this will not have anything to do with Michael Vick), I flipped the channel to the Sunday Night Game and caught the very end of the Keith Olbermann show. He signed off by saying Good Night and Good Luck. Wasn't that Edward R. Murrow's sign off? He then threw the papers on his desk at the camera. Isn't that Letterman's thing?

Just what we need on television - plagiarized irreverence...and irrelevance.


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Speaking of irrelevance, there is a column in the New York Post on Sundays that is so incoherent, and at the same time, derivative that I have to destroy it here and now.

By writing this, I'm sort of encouraging you to read it (including the link above does that too I guess). It's the last thing I want to do, but I want you to see for yourself how puke-inducing it really is.

It's called About Last Night and it's written by some twit named Mandy Stadtmiller. She's this chick-lit peddling, cutsey pie-nicknaming, Carrie Bradshaw wannabe. I know she'll see this; and not because I emailed her this blog address (while telling her how much she sucks) but because she's the type of person who probably Googles herself 12 times a day. The column is this nauseating, quasi stream of consciousness account of her dating life.

She's the type of person whose aspirations no doubt include having her pink and yellow covered Chick-lit bullshit novel in the new releases bin at Barnes and Noble, as well as making a guest appearance on one of those VH-1, "I Love the 70's" shows. You know those fourth rate comedians who make those unfunny comments about Ralph Mouth or Dick Clark...that's her. In fact, on her bio section of her website Mandy Stadtmiller, you'll see that she lists her one and only interest as "listing her credits". Yeeeeesh.

The picture of her on top of her column is kinda cute, but it's a grainy black and white, so who knows what she looks like. The main reason I'm spewing so much shit her way is due to the simple fact that she cannot write. She has no right taking up space in my Sunday paper...no more right than I have. Okay, I'm jealous. Is that you're simplistic analysis, ya pricks? Go ahead, you're entitled to feel that way, but it's only partly true.

When I challenged her to a 'write-off', she declined. She sited that her army of literary agents would feel it's inappropriate. Oooooh. That really sticks it too me. She has literary agents and I don't. B.F.D. I'm sure she has many more Google entries than I have too. It still doesn't make her any less shitty of a writer.

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Identify the following sound: gdluuunnnkkkygdunkkk bdddnnnfrshhhhhhh ptfptfffffushh pudubb dud.

Answer: A 6 foot, 1 inch, 40 year old man, in full backpeddle, tripping over his own ankles, spastically crashing on to an astro-turf field, curling up into a ball and rolling to a stop. (the part where he looks up and watches helplessly as I burn him for touchdown does not make a sound.)

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Join this football pool.

Cab Work

The post-date cab ride is one of life's great pleasures, most of time. This past Saturday night was one of those times – sort of.

Here's the scenario: Towards the tail end of a Merlot-fueled, yuck-fest of a first date, I manage to steal a darkened sidewalk kiss, right around the corner from The Cub Room on Sullivan Street. After a bit more wine tasting/hand holding, I sense that Phase I of the evening is starting to lose its legs. We are at least 100 blocks away from either of our apartments so I do the natural thing and flag down a cab.

As she’d ducking down to get in the car, she hesitates and turns to me. I’m totally sensing some trepidation on her part; not 'date rape' trepidation, but 'you've already shown yourself to be aggressive, so don’t try any funny stuff' trepidation. I give her a pretty disingenuous 'don't worry, I'm harmless' lip curl. It's enough to convince her. She slides in.

The mix of anticipation and uncertainty, especially on a first date, reaches a peak just about now. The events of the next fifteen to twenty minutes (depending on traffic) are very much, ahem, up for grabs . "Two stops, please," she bleats cordially to the driver while looking directly at me. Very well, but if I'm going home alone, I'm damn well going to maximize this cab ride.

I eschew screwing around and put my hand on her leg a few blocks into the ride. I'm happy to learn that it’s not immediately brushed off. She moves closer. So much for no funny stuff.

The fast twitch muscles in my fingers begin to heat up, as we kiss the taste (which had notes of plum and licorice, fyi) out of each others' mouths. I can hear the blood thumping into my eardrums and feel the adrenaline swooshing around the rest of my head. I fast-twitch her left bra strap over her shoulder. She recoils a little bit at first, but I quickly pursue, trying to stomp out this sudden pang of chastity. It seems to work as we’re pressed hard against the door, my hand up and through the bottom of her shirt.

On the other hand, my other hand is elsewhere and initial readings indicate that she's as hot and humid as a late afternoon in the Brazilian rainforest, as is the vinyl seat beneath her. I hear a whoosh now. The driver has flipped on the rear defogger - and not because of the weather. My eyes are drowning in wine and lust, as I'm sure, are hers. This, of course, is right at the point when we exit the FDR Drive...Fuuaaack! I should have told him to take First Avenue.

All things considered, it's probably a good time for her to start buttoning-up/drying off. The cab stops. I look at her with as much wine-sloshed, puppy-dog as I can muster and ask her if I can get out with her. I know the answer but there's no reason for her to look at me as if I just asked her to split the cab fare.

Magically she's freshened herself up enough in last fifteen seconds to face her doorman. I kiss her goodbye, as she climbs over me and out. I now know that in ten blocks or so, a Saturday Night Jerkfest to end all jerkfests will soon be in the offing. Before that however, I unfortunately have to face my doorman.

This story is not unique and I've always been quite a taxicab Lothario. But I don't think it's just me. I really believe that many, many girls are closet exhibitionists (if you haven't seen the skit in Woody Allen's Everything You Wanted to Know about Sex, but Were Afraid to Ask, where he's married to a woman who can only have sex in public, you must.) What better and safer way for them to express this, but in a cab. Only one other person in the room, whom they'll never see again, and he's facing the complete opposite way. It's softcore for sure, but it's still a very public display.

I try not to analyze it too much and once in a while I do get the Heisman. Maybe it's merely that some girls are just as horny as us. What do I give a shit? I'm happy to oblige. And if there is a next time, the cab is probably making just one stop.

This time, unfortunately, it's only Jerkfest fodder. At least I have some new material.


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Next time you see a Geico Caveman commercial, close your eyes and see if you visualize Bill Walton. Then immediately open your eyes and get that image out of your head, for chrissakes.

Beckham

If it was 3-1 or even 4-2, it probably wouldn't have raised a red flag for me.

But did you happen to catch the score of that Red Bulls/LA Galaxy game on Saturday Night? The one that Mr. Spice played in. It was 5-4. Give me a fucking break. There has never been that many goals scored in a soccer game since Rome conquered Germania in 52 BC.

Do they really expect us to believe that a league office meeting didn't take place where it was decided that defense would be abolished for this game?

Now you'll see a lot of sports talk in these pages, and in general, I could give two shits about soccer, but cynacism can be generated from anywhere.

The league is obviously desperate to generate interest with an artificial three pronged attack. Beckham, New York, and mucho scoring. OK, maybe it will work, but on the heels of the whole Donaghy/NBA mess, I hope there's nothing fishy about this game - namely a pre-determined, league mandated directive to abandon defense. If that's true, and even if it's not, soccer will continue to have as much relevance of the NBA All-Star game, i.e., none.

Speaking of soccer, can someone explain why sandlot soccer players monopolize every piece of available playground space in this city - all the time. What the hell time do these people wake up on Sunday Morning or go to bed... on any night? I'd love to pull a Superman III on their collective asses...take every soccer ball in the city , put them in one of those gigantic ball nets, fly into outer space, and throw the thing right into the fucking Sun.

Duane Reade

New Duane Reade opened up across the street today. That's a good thing I guess, but they really have to get their shit together over there. In a ten minute visit, the following took place:

They had no ice packs. How can this be? The store opened 24 hours ago and they're out of stock in something already? Doesn't a corporation like Duane Reade have a checklist of standard stuff/automatically stocked items. I mean, it's an ice pack. It's not like I was looking for a home self-colonic machine or anything complicated. They had every fucking variety of Pepperidge Farm cookies, including Milanos and Mint Milanos, and they don't have a basic medical item? Of course I picked up a three bagger of Brussels - $2.99 each with Duane Reade Club Card.

The guy ahead of me was given his change in mostly pennies. The cashier told him she was out of dimes. He looked at the pile of lincolns in his hands and she adds, 'and nickles'. How about getting a few rolls of change for the register before you open the doors? I thought she was going to pull out her purse. Incidentally, I saw that same guy at the Commerce Bank penny arcade later on in the evening.

The place was in the greatest state of chaos that a drug store could possibly be in...short of a case full of Prozac spilling out over the pharmacist's counter and on to the floor. I'll need to remember not to call in any prescriptions over there.

When did these 'drug stores' become supermarkets with no food? They have all these aisles, but nothing really useful to buy. Yet I find myself in Duane Reade three or four times a week. That being the case, I wonder why I didn't already have that ice pack.

Weekly Update

Hello All,

I'm a blogger now. Congratulations to me.

I won't bore you with a lot expository stuff, but I'll mention that I'm a 40 year old, single guy living on the Upper East Side. I’ve decided that instead of paying a $40 a week co-pay at a shrink’s office, I will air my grievances here. Will I say everything here that I would to him? Maybe eighty percent. Do I give a shit if nobody but my moron friends reads this? Not really. Will I ask another question and answer it myself? No.

I do actually want to address one of those questions however. When I said eighty percent, I didn’t mean that I’d only be eighty percent truthful. Everything you read will be true or the slightly embellished truth. And even though the title of this blog may imply the opposite, you won’t only read about stuff that pisses me (and probably you) off, but maybe a quasi-charming happenstance on a bus, a freaky event, or maybe even something that made me happy…those, of course will be far less frequent.

Sometimes I might sound crass, narrow-minded, or bigoted. If this is offensive to you, you are more than welcome to immediately get the fuck out. I won’t be making a conscious effort to be politically incorrect just for the sake of it, but sometimes, it’s how I honestly feel. Again, feel free to click the fuck out. Or better yet, let me know why you clicked the fuck out before you click the fuck out. That’s how we all can get some good dialogue going.

Also, please don’t be misled that this is a political forum. There are plenty of those around from what I hear. I will have some guest columnists pop in from time to time who a lot more about that shit than I do. We’ll also have some food, sports and movie talk. All we need is the obligatory serious story and some very soft core, non-jerkoffable pictures of TV starlets and we’ll have Maxim. Is that magazine still around? Anyway, I promise to poke around and rip off good concepts from stuff I see on other blogs, i.e. links to stuff I'm talking about, pictures and poll questions. Suggestions are welcome.

I won't make rule about it, but let's keep the :)'s and the LOL's, etc, to an absolute minimum. I realize the smiley face is necessary because of its statement softening properties and the LOL really lets every know you think something is funny, but do me a favor and save that shit for your IM's to Krissy75.

There really is nobody in my life with that screen name, but we all have our Krissy75s. She's the girl who looks really good in three photos, but not as good in the fourth, the girl with whom you've been corresponding for two weeks, but always seems to be busy when you suggest a meeting, and the girl to whom you feel you've invested enough time to at least get the opportunity to fuck.

We all know the freaking dance...the initial email, followed by the photo exchange, the IMing sessions (if photo exchange is mutually acceptable), followed by the phone call (big step), and finally the Meet-Up (which always starts with the immediate and most-of-the-time disappointing mental comparison with her picture and ends with me spending another $75).
True, non-embellished story - the other day I went through my wallet and there was receipt for $73.19 and another for $73.17 - two different girls and two different restaurants. Anyone who has any first, second or third date restaurants suggestions, by all means...dating stories too, of course

Speaking of restaurants, three of us (all guys) went to Mustang's on 85th and Second last Sunday afternoon and sat outside. First and foremost, the food was horrendous, almost inedible. It's a strange phenomenon because the food really sucked when it first opened, got a lot better when they hired a new chef a few years ago, but now it's worse than ever. It's almost like they had a meeting and decided that it would be better to go back to the old policy of bad food. "Anybody have Jorge's cell number. Let's get him back here."

But another thing that diminished our dining experience even further was that we had one of these hotshot waitresses who didn't write anything down. I mean, what's the benefit of this? It's not like it's going to impress any of us enough to increase her tip. The risk/reward for her doesn't add up and if you don't write it down, you better get it exactly right.

Anyway, one of us (not me) suggested, in a perfectly courteous manner, that she might want to write it down. Even though one of us (not me again) couldn't decide what to get and then ordered a lot of stuff which all needed to be cooked a certain way, she said she got it all. The order, of course, was completely fucked up.

In the end, it really didn't matter because anything they would have brought out would have sucked anyway. Forty bucks each for a funky-ass mushroom quesadilla and a couple of frozen Margaritas. As my father would say (I will quote him often) "Fake food, real money." The girl was sort of cute, so of course we didn't really ding her on the tip. Just another example of why it's good to be a cute girl. But I can say that Mustangs really pissed me off in New York City this week.

That new show on Showtime which comes on after Weeds, called Californication, is very good (link to trailer at the top of this page) . I was never an X-files fan, but David Duchovny is a pretty good actor. He's plays a sex addict and writer, pretty much in that order. Lotsa hot chicks who are naked more often than not and good dialogue, which is a good combination for me. Oh and Weeds is, and always has been, a great show. Weed is good too.