Gay Talese (who wrote the phenomenal "Frank Sinatra has a Cold" profile for Esquire that everyone should read at least once) was once a copy editor at the times. And now the world is abuzz (Abuzz! Get it? No? OK, wait one second) at his revelation that journalists were on the sauce.
And these weren't just journalists. They were the best journalists in the world! New York Times journalists! Superjournalists!
Saying journalists are drunks is like saying DMV agents are nitpicky. It is a redundancy of the highest order, according to the Institution for Redundancy Institute. And Gay Talese laments that there is nothing like that now.
Well, Mr. Talese, I wish you could have joined my fellow editors and me for a night putting out the paper.
Some nights began at 5 p.m. with a trip to Chili's where we would order food to go so we could eat back at the office. While waiting for our food to be cooked, we did what college students are naturally predisposed to do: take advantage of the 2-for-1 margarita happy hour special. After two margaritas on an empty stomach, we felt ready to put out a 28-page paper.
I considered the mini-fridge in my mini-office to be the most important thing in the room -- and that included the computer. The managing editor, an otherwise fine individual, would proudly feature on his desk a gigantic bottle of Jack Daniel's. Inter-section games of beer pong abounded. I don't know whether we produced more proof pages or empty beer bottles. Probably the former, but it was close. One of my columnists brought in a bottle of wine once, and we polished off the whole thing while we edited her column. On a couple of occasions I was called back from the bar to fix something. An editorial about a student being stabbed once almost went to print -- it was perfect, except its title was "Woooooo!" Our poor copy editors probably deserved medals.
One night, we missed the deadline to put out the paper by three hours because we were playing Andre Pong and it got out of hand quickly. The next day, I got an angry call from the Advertising Manager, who had the misfortune of coming into the office to work the following morning. She said, "It smells like you killed a hobo in here!" I was kind of proud.
And this is only the drinking we did whilst at the office. Once the paper was put to bed and we were released -- well, it could get rowdy.
We always tried to live to the standards of a sports desker who would have a new bottle of vodka on his desk when he sat down to put out the sports section. Eight hours later, both the section and the bottle would be finished. There were no mistakes in the section either. It was very impressive.
In the interview, Talese says "It's a wonder the paper ever got out." Implicit in that statement is the notion, that, despite the alcohol, the paper got out.
I think the collective experience of journalists proves the contrary. Because of the alcohol, the paper got out.
A car won't run without gas, right?
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Shirt Off My Back
I have been informed that during the booze cruise, although I did not take my shirt off entirely, I did unbutton most or all of the buttons at one point during the proceedings.
To be fair, it was at the behest of an audience. Nevertheless, I'd like to apologize to any unfortunate witnesses, but would also like to point out that at least I did not completely remove my shirt.
It's good to see that I'm mellowing in my old age.
To be fair, it was at the behest of an audience. Nevertheless, I'd like to apologize to any unfortunate witnesses, but would also like to point out that at least I did not completely remove my shirt.
It's good to see that I'm mellowing in my old age.
Monday, September 28, 2009
The Fast and the Curious
I tried, guys. I really tried.
Partly in solidarity with my Jewish friends, and partly because I did not go to the gym at all over the last three days, I was planning on embracing my inner Jew and doing the whole Yom Kippur thing and fasting.
About an hour into the experience, I was informed by a reliable source that water was also prohibited under the rules of atonement. Still nursing a hangover from the prior night's booze cruise, I expressed dismay at the notion. (Oy! I believe I said). When pressed, my source informed me that sacramental wine and even Manischewitz were also outlawed.
Upon hearing these unfortunate news, my dismay grew exponentially and I became very flustered. Why, I was turning into a Jew before everyone's eyes.
It was then that I decided to terminate the experiment. As a fan of the Jesus and enthusiastic eater, Yom Kippur simply is not for me. The sad state of my fridge prevented me from reacquainting myself with food via bacon-wrapped shrimp, a meal sure to send the little Hebrew living inside me into paroxysms of terror.
Instead, I noshed on wheat thins and hummus. I originally believed this combination to be an exception to the fasting rule. I was wrong.
Shrugging, I enjoyed a donut and a bowl of cereal. So I failed at pretending to be a Jew. These things happen. Plus, a day of atonement is not enough for me -- likely, I need weeks, perhaps months.
If I'm ever stranded on a desert island, and am forced into an involuntary fast, I might entertain this notion again. Until then, however, I remain, as always, a Goy.
Partly in solidarity with my Jewish friends, and partly because I did not go to the gym at all over the last three days, I was planning on embracing my inner Jew and doing the whole Yom Kippur thing and fasting.
About an hour into the experience, I was informed by a reliable source that water was also prohibited under the rules of atonement. Still nursing a hangover from the prior night's booze cruise, I expressed dismay at the notion. (Oy! I believe I said). When pressed, my source informed me that sacramental wine and even Manischewitz were also outlawed.
Upon hearing these unfortunate news, my dismay grew exponentially and I became very flustered. Why, I was turning into a Jew before everyone's eyes.
It was then that I decided to terminate the experiment. As a fan of the Jesus and enthusiastic eater, Yom Kippur simply is not for me. The sad state of my fridge prevented me from reacquainting myself with food via bacon-wrapped shrimp, a meal sure to send the little Hebrew living inside me into paroxysms of terror.
Instead, I noshed on wheat thins and hummus. I originally believed this combination to be an exception to the fasting rule. I was wrong.
Shrugging, I enjoyed a donut and a bowl of cereal. So I failed at pretending to be a Jew. These things happen. Plus, a day of atonement is not enough for me -- likely, I need weeks, perhaps months.
If I'm ever stranded on a desert island, and am forced into an involuntary fast, I might entertain this notion again. Until then, however, I remain, as always, a Goy.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
I'm on a Boat!
The third and last harbor booze cruise of my storied law school career took place yesterday.
Perhaps we have mellowed in our old age. Unlike last year, the boat was not turned around and brought back to port before schedule. Unlike last year, a cluster of police cars and ambulances were not waiting for us at the dock. Unlike last year, most of the night remains clearly in my memory.
God knows why we waited until it was basically October to take an evening cruise out into Boston Harbor. The temperature was perhaps 50 degrees out here on land. While no icebergs were sighted, temperatures must have been well below that out on the water.
Therefore, most of the cruise was spent drinking below deck, huddled for warmth. Because of this, we experienced long stretches where we kind of forgot we were on a boat -- a cardinal sin of being on a boat.
But weren't you on the ocean? you ask. Didn't the waves cause a gentle swaying?
This is a booze cruise, dear reader. You never know if the pitching back and forth is caused by the hurricane raging outside or the one clutched in a death-grip in your left hand.
And so the season for being on a boat comes to an end. In the interest of gambling, I kept track of how many times I said "I'M ON A BOAT!" during the event. The over/under was set at seven, and the grand total was three.
So congratulations, all of you who took the under. I'm probably more surprised than you are.
Perhaps we have mellowed in our old age. Unlike last year, the boat was not turned around and brought back to port before schedule. Unlike last year, a cluster of police cars and ambulances were not waiting for us at the dock. Unlike last year, most of the night remains clearly in my memory.
God knows why we waited until it was basically October to take an evening cruise out into Boston Harbor. The temperature was perhaps 50 degrees out here on land. While no icebergs were sighted, temperatures must have been well below that out on the water.
Therefore, most of the cruise was spent drinking below deck, huddled for warmth. Because of this, we experienced long stretches where we kind of forgot we were on a boat -- a cardinal sin of being on a boat.
But weren't you on the ocean? you ask. Didn't the waves cause a gentle swaying?
This is a booze cruise, dear reader. You never know if the pitching back and forth is caused by the hurricane raging outside or the one clutched in a death-grip in your left hand.
And so the season for being on a boat comes to an end. In the interest of gambling, I kept track of how many times I said "I'M ON A BOAT!" during the event. The over/under was set at seven, and the grand total was three.
So congratulations, all of you who took the under. I'm probably more surprised than you are.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Driving to the Post
Everyone who thinks driving in Boston on NYC is a pain in the ass, take a look at this news report.
Yes, it's in Spanish, and the subtitles require 20/1 vision, but you don't really need to hear the guy. Just look at what he needs to do to drive.
Yes, it's in Spanish, and the subtitles require 20/1 vision, but you don't really need to hear the guy. Just look at what he needs to do to drive.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
The Boss's Birthday
Today Bruce Springsteen turns 60 years old.
When I'm 60, in the improbable event that I'm still alive, my doctor will no doubt be begging me to stop eating steak and quit the drinking and for God's sake, settle down before your body just throws up its arms and quits.
Bruce, however, is on the road 150 days a year, covering songs that he and the band have never played before, like this little-known Rolling Stones ditty:
So Happy Birthday, Bruce. If anyone wants to spend 25 minutes reading random stuff about Springsteen, Mental Floss has you covered.
When I'm 60, in the improbable event that I'm still alive, my doctor will no doubt be begging me to stop eating steak and quit the drinking and for God's sake, settle down before your body just throws up its arms and quits.
Bruce, however, is on the road 150 days a year, covering songs that he and the band have never played before, like this little-known Rolling Stones ditty:
So Happy Birthday, Bruce. If anyone wants to spend 25 minutes reading random stuff about Springsteen, Mental Floss has you covered.
Barney's Rules
Barney Stinson, perhaps the most enlightened character in prime time, has delivered yet another nugget of gold. In the past, he has outlined what a bachelor's apartment should look like.
Today, he explains how “the rules for girls are the same as the rules for Gremlins”:
Today, he explains how “the rules for girls are the same as the rules for Gremlins”:
When they first said rule number one, I nearly spat out my drink, until they clarified it. Regardless, the rules make sense. And am I the only one out there dying to know how Predator is instructive in showing one how to choose a tie?1. Never get them wet — in other words, don’t let them take a shower at your place.
2. Keep them away from sunlight — i.e., don’t ever see them during the day
3. Never feed them after midnight — meaning, she doesn’t sleep over, and you don’t have breakfast with her. Ever … No, Ted — brunch is not cool.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Fall Down and Go Boom
It seems that summer now technically has come to an end. To this I ask:
Where the f@&* did it go?
I know that for all intents an purposes, summer unofficially runs from Memorial Day to Labor Day. I tend to embrace this way of thinking in May, since it means summer comes earlier, but then also pay attention to the official calendar in the Fall, since it means fall comes later. This is, of course, a double standard of the highest order, yet probably not even in the Top 100 of the ones to which I subscribe.
Whatever. I am large. I contain multitudes.
In the interest of looking on the bright side, I will now turn to the pros of Autumn:
1. Football is back. God knows what’s wrong with Brady. The Pats would be 0-2 but for the Bills being the Bills. Against the Jets (of all goddamned teams, the Jets), he looked as lost as I’ve ever seen a quarterback look lost (non Jake Delhomme division). It’s as if they took out Tom Terrific and replaced him with Bizarro Brady. In fact, let’s all listen to the Brady anthem for inspiration. I still believe.
2. Less sweating. As a large man, I tend to sweat. As someone who eats a lot of meat, I tend to sweat. As someone who, believe it or not, actually exercises regularly, I tend to sweat. As someone who doesn’t have class until 1 p.m. and assumes he has plenty of time only to fart around and then find out he does not have as much time as he originally thought so now he has to half-jog to class, I tend to sweat. As a foreigner in America on the last 8 months of his visa, I tend to sweat. In short, with the weather ameliorating, I will still sweat, but at least now I won’t drown unfortunate ants.
3. Fall TV. The Office, 30 Rock, How I Met Your Mother, and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia are back. Community looks pretty funny (Ass Burger hehe). In other words, there’s stuff on TV again!
Now, in the interest of fairness, let’s look at the cons of Autumn.
1. No more grilling. The four basic food groups: Bun, Patty, Cheese, and BBQ Sauce, will no longer be available from grills on placid summer evenings. Now, we will have to go to restaurants to get a nice juicy burger. There are worse fates, of course. But there are few things as satisfying as grilling cow flesh with your bare hands, and cooking it to a point where it tastes like it died screaming. Cook it in my own kitchen? I could, of course. But one, I’m indoors. Two, using a pan (or God Forbid, a Foreman grill) is not the same. And three, my oven is still (after two and a half years) in mint condition. Let’s not go there quite yet.
2. No more Summer Ale. The taps of this wonderful beer have, um, tapped out. Although Octoberfest is a fine beer in its own right, Summer Ale is fantastic. This appeal comes mainly from its association with all that is great about summer. Also its association with drinking until you can’t feel feelings anymore.
3. The darkness. The encroaching darkness creeping faster and faster every day, chilling the air and forcing coats on us, which we then have to lug to the bars, and since most of Boston refuses to embrace civilization and provide coat checks, become a burden upon the crook of our arm, forcing awkward fumbling when meeting people while simultaneously drinking and trying to make eye contact with the bartender, who is avoiding you because your cleavage contains chest hair instead of boobs.
In short, if you see a desperate man in a polo shirt flipping burgers and warming his hands on a grill in a 40 degree chill, please bring him Scotch so that he may warm up and not die. Thanks.
Where the f@&* did it go?
I know that for all intents an purposes, summer unofficially runs from Memorial Day to Labor Day. I tend to embrace this way of thinking in May, since it means summer comes earlier, but then also pay attention to the official calendar in the Fall, since it means fall comes later. This is, of course, a double standard of the highest order, yet probably not even in the Top 100 of the ones to which I subscribe.
Whatever. I am large. I contain multitudes.
In the interest of looking on the bright side, I will now turn to the pros of Autumn:
1. Football is back. God knows what’s wrong with Brady. The Pats would be 0-2 but for the Bills being the Bills. Against the Jets (of all goddamned teams, the Jets), he looked as lost as I’ve ever seen a quarterback look lost (non Jake Delhomme division). It’s as if they took out Tom Terrific and replaced him with Bizarro Brady. In fact, let’s all listen to the Brady anthem for inspiration. I still believe.
2. Less sweating. As a large man, I tend to sweat. As someone who eats a lot of meat, I tend to sweat. As someone who, believe it or not, actually exercises regularly, I tend to sweat. As someone who doesn’t have class until 1 p.m. and assumes he has plenty of time only to fart around and then find out he does not have as much time as he originally thought so now he has to half-jog to class, I tend to sweat. As a foreigner in America on the last 8 months of his visa, I tend to sweat. In short, with the weather ameliorating, I will still sweat, but at least now I won’t drown unfortunate ants.
3. Fall TV. The Office, 30 Rock, How I Met Your Mother, and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia are back. Community looks pretty funny (Ass Burger hehe). In other words, there’s stuff on TV again!
Now, in the interest of fairness, let’s look at the cons of Autumn.
1. No more grilling. The four basic food groups: Bun, Patty, Cheese, and BBQ Sauce, will no longer be available from grills on placid summer evenings. Now, we will have to go to restaurants to get a nice juicy burger. There are worse fates, of course. But there are few things as satisfying as grilling cow flesh with your bare hands, and cooking it to a point where it tastes like it died screaming. Cook it in my own kitchen? I could, of course. But one, I’m indoors. Two, using a pan (or God Forbid, a Foreman grill) is not the same. And three, my oven is still (after two and a half years) in mint condition. Let’s not go there quite yet.
2. No more Summer Ale. The taps of this wonderful beer have, um, tapped out. Although Octoberfest is a fine beer in its own right, Summer Ale is fantastic. This appeal comes mainly from its association with all that is great about summer. Also its association with drinking until you can’t feel feelings anymore.
3. The darkness. The encroaching darkness creeping faster and faster every day, chilling the air and forcing coats on us, which we then have to lug to the bars, and since most of Boston refuses to embrace civilization and provide coat checks, become a burden upon the crook of our arm, forcing awkward fumbling when meeting people while simultaneously drinking and trying to make eye contact with the bartender, who is avoiding you because your cleavage contains chest hair instead of boobs.
In short, if you see a desperate man in a polo shirt flipping burgers and warming his hands on a grill in a 40 degree chill, please bring him Scotch so that he may warm up and not die. Thanks.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Classless
I have to go to court this morning, not for the usual reasons, but rather as part of a class.
This is because a large part of my schedule involves the criminal clinic and its attendant classes. Last semester, I took Criminal Procedure, or as I like to call it, Defense Against the Dark Arts.
This semester, I'm taking several classes in the same vein. To be more precise, only one of them is a class in the traditional sense -- that is, a class with a casebook and a final and an opportunity to sit in a classroom for 4 or 5 hours a week and catch up on email.
This would be Evidence, which teaches valuable lessons, not the least of which is the incredibly useful "Motion to Suppress the Gun."
The rest of the classes I'm taking this semester should more accurately be described as "workshops." While probably more valuable than actual classes, they decline to administer finals and only require a bare minimum of reading and actual class time.
The clinic in itself is a god-send. Now I barely have class (a condition I'm used to in another sense), and spend most of my time actually working instead of studying. There actually is a class for the clinic, a two hour affair that seems an excuse to get us to actually go to the tower of terror once a week, if only to prove that we are still alive and responsive. Most of the class actually involves going to court and working on actual, real cases. I am told much of it concerns prosecuting drug dealers. The conflict of interest here is so spectacularly obvious, it hardly warrants mentioning.
The third class would be Trial Advocacy, a three hour seminar taught once a week by a former judge in which we actually learn lawyering. In this class, we get a crash course on how to actually be a trial attorney, and how to give an opening statement, closing stement, direct and cross-examine, and dissemble, dissemble, dissemble. After a line of questioning, the judge actually told me to be a bigger asshole. I was unaware that this was possible, but will enthusiastically take her advice in what should be regarded as a textbook definition of "Enabling."
And, of course, the last class, which is not related to the criminal clinic. This would be Depositions, in which we learn how to, um, depose people. To those non-lawyers among you, this is much less dirty than it sounds. The importance of this class rests on the fact that it fulfills a requirement to graduate: that of a class teaching you professional responsibility. These two words have never been used to describe me, either individually or in their conjoined version. Therefore, this should be interesting, like learning a foreign language you know you'll never use.
I anticipate I'll spend most of my time this semester looking for a job and recovering from paralyzing hangovers. It should be simultaneously fun and terrifying. Pray for me.
This is because a large part of my schedule involves the criminal clinic and its attendant classes. Last semester, I took Criminal Procedure, or as I like to call it, Defense Against the Dark Arts.
This semester, I'm taking several classes in the same vein. To be more precise, only one of them is a class in the traditional sense -- that is, a class with a casebook and a final and an opportunity to sit in a classroom for 4 or 5 hours a week and catch up on email.
This would be Evidence, which teaches valuable lessons, not the least of which is the incredibly useful "Motion to Suppress the Gun."
The rest of the classes I'm taking this semester should more accurately be described as "workshops." While probably more valuable than actual classes, they decline to administer finals and only require a bare minimum of reading and actual class time.
The clinic in itself is a god-send. Now I barely have class (a condition I'm used to in another sense), and spend most of my time actually working instead of studying. There actually is a class for the clinic, a two hour affair that seems an excuse to get us to actually go to the tower of terror once a week, if only to prove that we are still alive and responsive. Most of the class actually involves going to court and working on actual, real cases. I am told much of it concerns prosecuting drug dealers. The conflict of interest here is so spectacularly obvious, it hardly warrants mentioning.
The third class would be Trial Advocacy, a three hour seminar taught once a week by a former judge in which we actually learn lawyering. In this class, we get a crash course on how to actually be a trial attorney, and how to give an opening statement, closing stement, direct and cross-examine, and dissemble, dissemble, dissemble. After a line of questioning, the judge actually told me to be a bigger asshole. I was unaware that this was possible, but will enthusiastically take her advice in what should be regarded as a textbook definition of "Enabling."
And, of course, the last class, which is not related to the criminal clinic. This would be Depositions, in which we learn how to, um, depose people. To those non-lawyers among you, this is much less dirty than it sounds. The importance of this class rests on the fact that it fulfills a requirement to graduate: that of a class teaching you professional responsibility. These two words have never been used to describe me, either individually or in their conjoined version. Therefore, this should be interesting, like learning a foreign language you know you'll never use.
I anticipate I'll spend most of my time this semester looking for a job and recovering from paralyzing hangovers. It should be simultaneously fun and terrifying. Pray for me.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Busey Being Busey
Even though three Jews and a Mexican reunited in Washington, DC last weekend, our good friend and mentor Gary Busey was nowhere to be found. Perhaps the name of the town did not end in " ... oh-ston," perhaps he simply wandered off in search of peace. We may never know.
In moments like these, I thank God for the internet. Here are the Top 5 Gary Busey being Gary Busey moments. If you think him directing his own interview is odd, watch this one:
In moments like these, I thank God for the internet. Here are the Top 5 Gary Busey being Gary Busey moments. If you think him directing his own interview is odd, watch this one:
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Ernie Harwell on Baseball
I kind of stole this from Buster Olney's excellent blog. Ernie Harwell, who called Detroit Tigers games for 42 years, is currently dying of cancer, and received a nice ovation yesterday for his farewell speech at the ballpark in Detroit last night.
This essay he wrote, however, might be one of the best things about baseball ever written:
This essay he wrote, however, might be one of the best things about baseball ever written:
Baseball is President Eisenhower tossing out the first ball of the season; and a pudgy schoolboy playing catch with his dad on a Mississippi farm. Its the big league pitcher who sins in night clubs. And the Hollywood singer who pitches to the Giants in spring training.A tall, thin old man waving a scorecard from his dugout -- that's baseball. So is the big, fat guy with a bulbous nose running out one of his 714 home runs with mincing steps.
It's America, this baseball. A re-issued newsreel of boyhood dreams. Dreams lost somewhere between boy and man. It's the Bronx cheer and the Baltimore farewell. The left-field screen in Boston, the right-field dump at Nashville's Sulphur Dell, the open stands in San Francisco, the dusty, wind-swept diamond at Albuquerque. And a rock home plate and a chicken wire backstop -- anywhere.
There's a man in Mobile who remembers a triple he saw Honus Wagner hit in Pittsburgh 46 years ago. That's baseball. So is the scout reporting that a 16-year-old sandlot pitcher in Cheyenne is the new "Walter Johnson."
It's a wizened little man shouting insults from the safety of his bleacher seat. And a big, smiling first baseman playfully tousling the hair of a youngster outside the players' gate.
Baseball is a spirited race of man against man, reflex against reflex. A game of inches. Every skill is measured. Every heroic, every failing is, seen and cheered -- or booed. And then becomes a statistic. In baseball, democracy shines its clearest. Here the only race that matters is the race to the bag. The creed is the rule book. Color is something to distinguish one team's uniform from another.
Baseball is Sir Alexander Fleming, discoverer of penicillin, asking his Brooklyn hosts to explain Dodger signals. It's player Moe Berg speaking seven languages and working crossword puzzles in Sanskrit. It's a scramble in the box seats for a foul -- and a $125 suit ruined. A man barking into a hot microphone about a cool beer, that's baseball. So is the sportswriter telling a .383 hitter how to stride, and a 20-victory pitcher trying to write his impressions of the World Series.
Baseball is a ballet without music. Drama without words. A carnival without kewpie dolls.
A housewife in California couldn't tell you the color of her husband's eyes, but she knows that Yogi Berra is hitting .337, has brown eyes and used to love to eat bananas with mustard. That's baseball. So is the bright sanctity of Cooperstown's Hall of Fame. And the former big leaguer who is playing out the string in a Class B loop.
Baseball is continuity. Pitch to pitch. Inning to inning. Game to game. Series to series. Season to season. It's rain, rain, rain splattering on a puddled tarpaulin as thousands sit in damp disappointment. And the click of typewriters and telegraph keys in the press box -- like so many awakened crickets. Baseball is a cocky batboy. The old-timer whose batting average increases every time he tells it. A lady celebrating a home team rally by mauling her husband with a rolled-up scorecard.
Baseball is the cool, clear eyes of Rogers Hornsby, the flashing spikes of Ty Cobb, an overaged pixie named Rabbit Maranville, and Jackie Robinson testifying before a Congressional hearing.
Baseball? It's just a game -- as simple as a ball and a bat. Yet, as complex as the American spirit it symbolizes. It's a sport, business -- and sometimes even religion.
Baseball is Tradition in flannel knickerbockers. And Chagrin in being picked off base. It is Dignity in the blue serge of an umpire running the game by rule of thumb. It is Humor, holding its sides when an errant puppy eludes two groundskeepers and the fastest outfielder. And Pathos, dragging itself off the field after being knocked from the box.
Nicknames are baseball. Names like Zeke and Pie and Kiki and Home Run and Cracker and Dizzy and Dazzy.
Baseball is a sweaty, steaming dressing room where hopes and feelings are as naked as the men themselves. It's a dugout with spike-scarred flooring. And shadows across an empty ballpark. It's the endless list of names in box scores, abbreviated almost beyond recognition.
The holdout is baseball, too. He wants 55 grand or he won't turn a muscle. But, it's also the youngster who hitch-hikes from South Dakota to Florida just for a tryout.
Arguments, Casey at the Bat, old cigarette cards, photographs, Take Me Out to the Ball Game -- all of them are baseball.
Baseball is a rookie -- his experience no bigger than the lump in his throat -- trying to begin fulfillment of a dream. It's a veteran, too -- a tired old man of 35, hoping his aching muscles can drag him through another sweltering August and September.
For nine innings, baseball is the story of David and Goliath, of Samson, Cinderella, Paul Bunyan, Homer's Iliad and the Count of Monte Cristo.
Willie Mays making a brilliant World Series catch. And then going home to Harlem to play stick-ball in the street with his teen-age pals -- that's baseball.
And so is the husky voice of a doomed Lou Gehrig saying, "I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth."
Baseball is cigar smoke, hot-roasted peanuts, The Sporting News, winter trades, "Down in Front," and the "Seventh-Inning Stretch." Sore arms, broken bats, a no-hitter, and the strains of the Star-Spangled Banner.
Baseball is a highly paid Brooklyn catcher telling the nation's business leaders: "You have to be a man to be a big leaguer, but you have to have a lot of little boy in you, too."
This is a game for America, this baseball!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Cougar Sanctuary
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The Great Teabagging
My trip to DC last weekend coincided with the teabagger rally. We’ve all, of course, seen the pictures of the lunatics – going through the pictures is like walking through a museum of madness of which Virgil would be proud.
I first glimpsed the madness when we landed in Baltimore. In front of us was Team America: a family of about eight who looked like an American flag threw up on them, happily devouring a box of glazed donuts. Yes, really.
But this was but the tip of the iceberg. From the start of this “Second American Revolution,” as many proudly called it, we were greeted by a woman with a sign featuring Marx, Hitler, Stalin, and Lenin, all surrounding a picture of Obama. An appropriate title would have been “One of These Things is Not Like the Others.” Instead, the title above this sign read, “Which One of These is Most like Obama?” When I asked the woman what the answer was, she said, “ALL OF THE ABOVE!” and pumped her fist.
Let’s try to be fair. These people are to the right what hippies are to the left. Let’s not forget that there are crazies on both sides.
That said, these were some kind of crazies. At one point, a “conservative rapper” – an oxymoron if I ever heard one – came on stage and yelled, “Yo where are all my right wing extremists at!?” The crowd went insane. I’ve never seen a more homogeneous crowd – this crowd was whiter than a Jimmy Buffet concert. A game of “Let’s find a minority!” yielded frustrating results.
The following are the most memorable things I saw. I can’t decide which is worse than the other:
1. The atrocious “Bury Obamacare with Kennedy” signs, made even more execrable by the fact that they were mass produced. When I asked a woman why she had that sign, she said, “I thought it was funny.”
2. Children used as props. One girl who could not have been more than 12 years old was standing in the middle of a field with a sign that said her debt was already $126,000. Her expression was one that you would expect of someone in stocks.
3. A guy in blackface. Yes, really. We were all walking by and then we saw him. “Yo, that guy is in blackface.” No way. “Yes, look. It’s blackface.” It can’t be. “He is.” There is no way he’s in blackface. It must be a skin condition. “I don’t think so. That’s blackface.” After a good minute of staring at him, we had no choice but to conclude he was in blackface. I know.
They cheered for Glenn Beck, rooted for Joe Wilson for president although maybe ten percent of them could name the state that Wilson represented, and advocated the dismantling of Congress (with the occasional exception reserved for the aforementioned Mr. Wilson). These patriots talked openly of secession and looked confused when they spoke of a recall election and we asked them what article in the Constitution allowed such a measure.
Arguing with them would have been fun if it hadn’t been so sad.
I first glimpsed the madness when we landed in Baltimore. In front of us was Team America: a family of about eight who looked like an American flag threw up on them, happily devouring a box of glazed donuts. Yes, really.
But this was but the tip of the iceberg. From the start of this “Second American Revolution,” as many proudly called it, we were greeted by a woman with a sign featuring Marx, Hitler, Stalin, and Lenin, all surrounding a picture of Obama. An appropriate title would have been “One of These Things is Not Like the Others.” Instead, the title above this sign read, “Which One of These is Most like Obama?” When I asked the woman what the answer was, she said, “ALL OF THE ABOVE!” and pumped her fist.
Let’s try to be fair. These people are to the right what hippies are to the left. Let’s not forget that there are crazies on both sides.
That said, these were some kind of crazies. At one point, a “conservative rapper” – an oxymoron if I ever heard one – came on stage and yelled, “Yo where are all my right wing extremists at!?” The crowd went insane. I’ve never seen a more homogeneous crowd – this crowd was whiter than a Jimmy Buffet concert. A game of “Let’s find a minority!” yielded frustrating results.
The following are the most memorable things I saw. I can’t decide which is worse than the other:
1. The atrocious “Bury Obamacare with Kennedy” signs, made even more execrable by the fact that they were mass produced. When I asked a woman why she had that sign, she said, “I thought it was funny.”
2. Children used as props. One girl who could not have been more than 12 years old was standing in the middle of a field with a sign that said her debt was already $126,000. Her expression was one that you would expect of someone in stocks.
3. A guy in blackface. Yes, really. We were all walking by and then we saw him. “Yo, that guy is in blackface.” No way. “Yes, look. It’s blackface.” It can’t be. “He is.” There is no way he’s in blackface. It must be a skin condition. “I don’t think so. That’s blackface.” After a good minute of staring at him, we had no choice but to conclude he was in blackface. I know.
They cheered for Glenn Beck, rooted for Joe Wilson for president although maybe ten percent of them could name the state that Wilson represented, and advocated the dismantling of Congress (with the occasional exception reserved for the aforementioned Mr. Wilson). These patriots talked openly of secession and looked confused when they spoke of a recall election and we asked them what article in the Constitution allowed such a measure.
Arguing with them would have been fun if it hadn’t been so sad.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Random Video of the Day LXX
While incredibly vulgar, this is also incredibly accurate. Here's to Tawmmy, Rogah, and Bo-ahb.
MA Men from Joey McIntyre
Do you know who I am? I'm JOE BIDEN!
This past weekend, three Jews and a Mexican descended upon our nation's capital. They are expected to recover.
Somehow, inexplicably, we were actually let into the White House. Our host graciously arranged for a tour of not just the White House, but the West Wing on Friday evening.
Let me say that again.
We got to go into the West fracking Wing!
(Dies)
As one might expect, the security procedure to allow one to access the West Wing is fairly comprehensive. Somehow, the background checks turned up nothing of consequence and we were allowed to go in.
This was not without caveats. Everyone else got a nice little badge that said "Tour" and nothing else. Because I was Made in Mexico, I got a slightly different badge. Mine said "Clearance A, Must Have Escort" in big black letters set on a bright pink background. I was the only one with this type of badge. Apparently, the reason this particular badge was so loud was to make it easier for the snipers on the roof to have me in their scope at all times.
This, of course, did not stop us from making inappropriate jokes about the Oval Office, mostly at the expense of Bill Clinton.
We also got to see the Cabinet Room and the Roosevelt room, where important people tend to meet. They were roped off, but I managed to sneak in a toe to actually set foot on these rooms. This is probably the closest I'll ever be to the executive offices, so I thought I might as well try.
Why do I think this is the closest I'll get? Because when we walked into the Cabinet Room, my first thought wasn't about all the history that had been made here. My first thought was, "Those tables look perfect for flip cup."
Yes, I know. Moving on.
Unfortunately, we did not see Joe Biden. See, we half expected to be walking around the West Wing when we would have seen a forlorn man wandering about in search of a purpose. Upon spotting us, he would bound over with all the overeagerness of a fraternity president whose rush week isn't going quite as well as he hoped. Then, he would wring our hands and say, "HellohowdoyoudomynameisJOEBIDEN," while grinning furiously. "Let me tell you a story!"
Alas, this did not happen, and perhaps it is for the best. We'd probably still be there, held captives, until a custodial staff member kindly asked Biden to please move so she could vacuum the carpet under him.
The weekend also featured a visit to Five Guys, which is better than In-n-Out. Yes, I said it. Also a visit to the teabagger rally, which merits its own blog post (forthcoming). We also crashed a neighborhood wine tasting, where we stayed long enough for the crazy woman who organized it to literally push us out the door. Yes, really.
At some point, I also took shots with the Mexican busboys at the bar. This wasprobably a poor decision.
Gary Busey, unfortunately, was a no show. Perhaps we'll see him at our next reunion, which is tentatively scheduled for sunny Mexico.
Somehow, inexplicably, we were actually let into the White House. Our host graciously arranged for a tour of not just the White House, but the West Wing on Friday evening.
Let me say that again.
We got to go into the West fracking Wing!
(Dies)
As one might expect, the security procedure to allow one to access the West Wing is fairly comprehensive. Somehow, the background checks turned up nothing of consequence and we were allowed to go in.
This was not without caveats. Everyone else got a nice little badge that said "Tour" and nothing else. Because I was Made in Mexico, I got a slightly different badge. Mine said "Clearance A, Must Have Escort" in big black letters set on a bright pink background. I was the only one with this type of badge. Apparently, the reason this particular badge was so loud was to make it easier for the snipers on the roof to have me in their scope at all times.
This, of course, did not stop us from making inappropriate jokes about the Oval Office, mostly at the expense of Bill Clinton.
We also got to see the Cabinet Room and the Roosevelt room, where important people tend to meet. They were roped off, but I managed to sneak in a toe to actually set foot on these rooms. This is probably the closest I'll ever be to the executive offices, so I thought I might as well try.
Why do I think this is the closest I'll get? Because when we walked into the Cabinet Room, my first thought wasn't about all the history that had been made here. My first thought was, "Those tables look perfect for flip cup."
Yes, I know. Moving on.
Unfortunately, we did not see Joe Biden. See, we half expected to be walking around the West Wing when we would have seen a forlorn man wandering about in search of a purpose. Upon spotting us, he would bound over with all the overeagerness of a fraternity president whose rush week isn't going quite as well as he hoped. Then, he would wring our hands and say, "HellohowdoyoudomynameisJOEBIDEN," while grinning furiously. "Let me tell you a story!"
Alas, this did not happen, and perhaps it is for the best. We'd probably still be there, held captives, until a custodial staff member kindly asked Biden to please move so she could vacuum the carpet under him.
The weekend also featured a visit to Five Guys, which is better than In-n-Out. Yes, I said it. Also a visit to the teabagger rally, which merits its own blog post (forthcoming). We also crashed a neighborhood wine tasting, where we stayed long enough for the crazy woman who organized it to literally push us out the door. Yes, really.
At some point, I also took shots with the Mexican busboys at the bar. This was
Gary Busey, unfortunately, was a no show. Perhaps we'll see him at our next reunion, which is tentatively scheduled for sunny Mexico.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
"I'm Manufacturing Runs, Man!"
We stole cake from someone. I think it was a birthday cake, but I can't be sure. At some point, someone found a vat of peanuts, perhaps a thousand of them, in a container roughly the size of a small child. This was later dropped all over a bar floor. Two fairly successful fantasy drafts were held. The game of dodgebeer was introduced to BU Law, and left everyone injured, bleeding, and nearly sick, and resulted in the near upending of a couch, which might have gone through a wall if I hadn't almost dropped it on a friend's head instead. A walk-off home run was "hit" in a game that we call baseball but which is what would happen if flip cup and beer pong had a baby, and beer pong and flip cup were related.
Things eaten included prime rib and what I will call a "Jesus Muffin," because it might very well save you. I am now the proud owner of a bottle of Gentleman's Jack, courtesy of a good friend, and an 18-year old Glenlivet, courtesy of my father. They might survive the month, but it's doubtful. We grilled on the roof deck and fed a good two dozen people. And drinking on a roof with your friends until you get kicked out of the bar ... well, it's par for the course, but it still ain't old.
Unlike me, although I have to say that was a pretty successful birthday weekend. I'm sure I left some things out. I'm sure the police report will be more detailed.
And I found that this man and I share a birthday, which makes such an enormous amount of sense, it's absurd.
Things eaten included prime rib and what I will call a "Jesus Muffin," because it might very well save you. I am now the proud owner of a bottle of Gentleman's Jack, courtesy of a good friend, and an 18-year old Glenlivet, courtesy of my father. They might survive the month, but it's doubtful. We grilled on the roof deck and fed a good two dozen people. And drinking on a roof with your friends until you get kicked out of the bar ... well, it's par for the course, but it still ain't old.
Unlike me, although I have to say that was a pretty successful birthday weekend. I'm sure I left some things out. I'm sure the police report will be more detailed.
And I found that this man and I share a birthday, which makes such an enormous amount of sense, it's absurd.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
We Ain't That Young Anymore
Today I turn the rather formidable age of 25.
For a quarter of a century I have tread this Earth. This concept, in and of itself, is a sign of obvious good fortune. We may perhaps call it a miracle.
After all, my continued existence is proof that God indeed takes care of fools and drunks. This double coverage has seen me through 25 years, and with a little providence I may yet get to travel through another 25.
Those older than me will look at this post and scoff. They would, of course, kill to be 25 again. My complaining about how old I'm getting is absurd to them, at best. At worst, it's somewhat insulting.
To this I say, forgive me. We only turn 25 once, and today it is my turn.
The ponderousness of the number owes a great debt to its status as a milestone. Whereas the woods behind me are littered with markers -- 6, 13, 16, 21 come immediately to mind, complementing the round numbers -- beyond here lies nothing. After 25, it is a slow slog through 30, 35, and the unmentionable numbers farther ahead.
Forgive me if I'm rambling. I'm just starting to realize that, at some point, everyone must stop being young and stupid. With every tick of the clock, that moment creeps closer. Turning 25 is a stark reminder that the moment is closer than ever. God forbid that I'm past it.
But you know what? Screw it.
I always said that I'd be dragged into adulthood kicking and screaming, and by God I will keep that promise.
Some day, perhaps not too far off, I will be forced to stop. By what? Who knows. Perhaps it will be the necessities of a job, the failings of my body, a court order, or the tears of my wife. Some day I will swallow the pill, grit my teeth, and stop.
But that is not this day.
I'm not done and the story ain't over. We get to be young once and we might as well use that window before it closes. Because if not now, then when? I might make some mistakes and occasionally wake up in another state, but you know what? Every man should have some stories to tell. And the older you get, the less likely a judge is to forgive you.
So I'm going to have some fun while I can and I suggest you join me.
And if you don't?
Well, perhaps tomorrow, then. And, as always, avenge me.
For a quarter of a century I have tread this Earth. This concept, in and of itself, is a sign of obvious good fortune. We may perhaps call it a miracle.
After all, my continued existence is proof that God indeed takes care of fools and drunks. This double coverage has seen me through 25 years, and with a little providence I may yet get to travel through another 25.
Those older than me will look at this post and scoff. They would, of course, kill to be 25 again. My complaining about how old I'm getting is absurd to them, at best. At worst, it's somewhat insulting.
To this I say, forgive me. We only turn 25 once, and today it is my turn.
The ponderousness of the number owes a great debt to its status as a milestone. Whereas the woods behind me are littered with markers -- 6, 13, 16, 21 come immediately to mind, complementing the round numbers -- beyond here lies nothing. After 25, it is a slow slog through 30, 35, and the unmentionable numbers farther ahead.
Forgive me if I'm rambling. I'm just starting to realize that, at some point, everyone must stop being young and stupid. With every tick of the clock, that moment creeps closer. Turning 25 is a stark reminder that the moment is closer than ever. God forbid that I'm past it.
But you know what? Screw it.
I always said that I'd be dragged into adulthood kicking and screaming, and by God I will keep that promise.
Some day, perhaps not too far off, I will be forced to stop. By what? Who knows. Perhaps it will be the necessities of a job, the failings of my body, a court order, or the tears of my wife. Some day I will swallow the pill, grit my teeth, and stop.
But that is not this day.
I'm not done and the story ain't over. We get to be young once and we might as well use that window before it closes. Because if not now, then when? I might make some mistakes and occasionally wake up in another state, but you know what? Every man should have some stories to tell. And the older you get, the less likely a judge is to forgive you.
So I'm going to have some fun while I can and I suggest you join me.
And if you don't?
Well, perhaps tomorrow, then. And, as always, avenge me.
Friday, September 4, 2009
You're Like a Big Bear, Man!
The appearance of a Bill Simmons Vegas column is like the sounding of a conch shell, calling all degenerates to its hallowed Valhalla. (Parts 1 and 2)
Seriously, how can you not want to go to Vegas to do a fantasy football draft with your friends when stuff like this might happen:
So, who's in for Vegas?
Seriously, how can you not want to go to Vegas to do a fantasy football draft with your friends when stuff like this might happen:
12:20: The doorbell rings. It's CEO Eric! He's accompanied by two scantily clad Pizza Girls, five pizzas and a case of Bud Light. I'm not kidding -- this almost caused a riot. One girl is dressed like a cheerleader; the other is wearing Tom Brady's jersey and underwear (only if both had been shrunk to one-fourth the size). Later, CEO Eric described our reaction as "2-year-olds at a birthday party as Barney walks in." By the way, we're old.Only Simmons can use Barney the purple dinosaur as an analogy for strippers.
So, who's in for Vegas?
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Honey, I Shrunk the Mets
Understandably spooked, the Mets are taking every precaution against rogue meteors that money can buy.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Ye Olde Collegetowne Map
By the time second semester of senior year rolled around, it is safe to say that, at some point or another, we'd been in a lot Collegetown houses. Perhaps these memories were hazy recollections -- I know I walked into many a house and vaguely felt like I'd been there before. And it is likely that I had actually been there, God knows to do what. Probably I wandered drunkenly into the wrong apartment.
Regardless, Collegetown was a history. Driving around it now elicits a whole collection of memories, about what you did when and where. It is an exercise worth pursuing.
That said, the general memories are worthwhile too. This map provides just that. It is a history of Collegetown and its eclectic past, told through what the particular buildings are and what they once housed: Johnny's Big Red Grill and the house where Nabokov wrote Lolita receive equal billing.
Now if the mapmaker can pinpoint the house where I left both my shirt and my dignity, I'll be all set.
Regardless, Collegetown was a history. Driving around it now elicits a whole collection of memories, about what you did when and where. It is an exercise worth pursuing.
That said, the general memories are worthwhile too. This map provides just that. It is a history of Collegetown and its eclectic past, told through what the particular buildings are and what they once housed: Johnny's Big Red Grill and the house where Nabokov wrote Lolita receive equal billing.
Now if the mapmaker can pinpoint the house where I left both my shirt and my dignity, I'll be all set.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Quote of the Day LIV
On behalf of the United States, allow me to extend my deepest thanks to the industrious people of your nation, whose ability to lug my belongings to a new apartment at a decent price and without complaint made today much easier.
-- Marc
From T to Crawling T
Today marks a big anniversary. On this day 112 years ago, the Boston subway made its grand debut. Today, the T continues to honor its legacy as the oldest subway in America by maintaining its speed at the same rate as it had in 1897 when the whole thing opened up.
In fact, here is a video of how God sees the T. Notice how the various branches of the Green Line valiantly strive to be the slowest one. Sometimes you even think it's going backwards.
And if you squint, you can see tiny little people grow more and more frustrated as they realize they spend nearly an hour of their day underground.
In fact, here is a video of how God sees the T. Notice how the various branches of the Green Line valiantly strive to be the slowest one. Sometimes you even think it's going backwards.
And if you squint, you can see tiny little people grow more and more frustrated as they realize they spend nearly an hour of their day underground.
Random Video of the Day LXIX
In honor of moving day. September 1st might be the worst day of the year in Boston.
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