I have been extremely busy this week.  My dad came up over the weekend for dinner two nights (see below), I had 3 hour fantasy baseball drafts on each of Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday evenings (see below), and I’m heading to Boston tonight, and from there will be going to Newport, Rhode Island for a weekend-long bachelor party (again, see below).  Between the company, the drafts, the errands to prepare for the bachelor party, and the fact that I’m taking the final two days of the quarter off – typically one of my busiest times in the work year – well, Uncle Jason’s had his hands full lately.

(I’m sorry – I just needed to kvetch there.  Thank you for listening.)

*************

I asked my dad to come up from Philly and took him to dinner on Saturday.  If I had to break down the conversations my dad and I have (and have had – ever), they would go: 

71% The Philadelphia Eagles
17% food
9% family
2% "You ain’t gay, right?"
1% "Look, if you are gay, just tell me now.  I think it’ll be ok.  Christ, what have I done?" 

But now that it’s no longer football season, my dad and I have been increasingly talking about food, particularly about the monthly dinners that I and my friend Nicole have.  Realizing that this past weekend was my only free one for some time, I invited him up for a meal.  I wanted to take him to The Strip House, but he didn’t let me know he was definitely coming up until Friday night, so by then the only available reservations for Saturday were at 5pm and 10:30pm.  No dice.  Instead, we went to my favorite stand-by, Sparks.

…And it was probably the single best steak I’ve ever had.  Make no mistake; Sparks has its flaws.  The bufala mozzarella on the sliced tomatoes was too liquidy, the creamed spinach was grainy (it tasted like over-cooked rice was in there), and the chocolate mousse cake was just eh.  But if you’re looking for strictly meat and potatoes, specifically the hash brown potatoes and the filet mignon, you can’t go wrong.

(I would go more into detail here but I was up very late last night packing for the bachelor party and drinking a lot of Chinese beer, which is very sweet and gives terrible hangovers.  For the first time since I was 23, I am in a fair amount of danger of throwing up at work.  So forgive me the lack of details about the steak.  It was great.  Trust me.)

And though I was worried about the conversation, I have to say, it was a great time – just two men, eating steak, one of them getting fucked up (my dad doesn’t drink and I had been at an all you can drink brunch all day prior to his arrival).  And I’m happy to say that we have a new thing to talk about: guns.

For as long as I can remember, my dad has always loved guns (I’ll thank you not to point out that guns are very high on the list of things I’m afraid of, just above bugs and clowns but below thunder, dark colors, and all dogs).  I think, however, that is love affair went away for a while, but it appears to be back with a vengeance.  He spoke at length about how he loves going to the firing range, how he wants to get my sister, a nursing student during her clinicals in Camden, a gun, and suggested that I "pick up a nice piece" for myself.  I thanked him for the suggestion, but politely said that that might not be the best idea.  Later, while thinking it over, I decided that I can handle almost anything that life throws at me, but the introduction of two things into my life right now would certainly destroy it: a gun or a baby.  If I get either one of those things, we are all in big, big trouble.  

Sunday, my dad stuck around and we dined at Festival Mexicano, which is just about his favorite place in the world.  He loves the picadillo nachos (what’s not to love, really?) and must have said, "I can’t get over how good these are" somewhere in the neighborhood of 14 times.  When we left, I thought he was going to kiss the waitress, so grateful was he for such delicious food.

All in all, a great bonding weekend with my dad.  And now I have discovered the one thing I must do to erase years of disappointing my dad in all sorts of manly things: buy a gun, shoot a gun, not cry.  If I can pull these three things off, I’m 90% certain that my dad would be willing to forgive me for 27 years of reading books, not getting into fights, and being tattoo-less.  

I’ll think about it.         

*************

Big fantasy baseball week (just skip this part if you’re not interested).  Here’s how my main league turned out, with the round I took the player in parentheses.

[Note: This is our first year of a keeper league, I had the 7th overall pick of 11, and we use runs-rbi-sb-total bases-obp on offense, along with standard pitching categories.]

C: Jorge Posada (16)
1B: Lance Berkman (2)
2B: Chase Utley (1)
3B: Troy Glaus (6)
SS: Carlos Guillen (7)
OF: Jason Bay (3)
OF: Chone Figgins (5)
OF: Alex Rios (10)
Util: Willy Taveras (12)
Util: Brad Hawpe (14)
B: Moises Alou (17)
B: Mark Teahen (19)
B: Eric Byrnes (20)

SP: Brandon Webb (4)
SP: C.C. Sabathia (8)
RP: Takashi Saito (11)
RP: Joe Borowski (13)
P: Erik Bedard (9)
P: AJ Burnett (15)
P: Daniel Cabrera (18)
P: Ted Lilly (21)
B: Ian Snell (22)
B: Matt Garza (23)

I’m pretty happy with it.  I like the versatility – Berkman qualifies at 1B and OF, Glaus at 3B and SS, Figgins at 2B, 3B and OF, and Teahen, he of .970 second half OPS, will shortly qualify at 3B and OF.  I like the pop – Berkman, Utley, Glaus, Bay, Rios, Hawpe, Alou, and Teahan are all capable of 25+ homers, which means lots of total bases – and I like the speed - I could get 90 stolen bases out of Figgins and Taveras, as well as 10+ each from Utley, Guillen, Bay, Rios and Byrnes.  Balance, my friends.  

(I confess that when I drafted him, I did not know that Figgins would be out for five weeks.  I thought he was out for only one.  However, I still stand by the pick.)  

As for pitching, I stuck to my usual and my starters are all high-K guys.  I love Webb, Sabathia, Bedard and Burnett as my top four - I sincerely believe that those first three could finish in the top five in their respective leagues in this year’s Cy Young voting.  I could use another closer, but I’ll figure that out as the season moves along.  Also, Site Guy Brendan pulled his typical asshole move and drafted five starting closers (most other guys have two, one or two guys have three).  Dick.

There you have it.  Wish me luck (or at least, wish me just enough luck to beat Site Guy Brendan, who’s been getting pretty cocky about fantasy sports lately.)   

*************

I was out and about yesterday after work, shopping for a digital camera and taking in the glorious 78 degree weather, and I feel comfortable making the following official announcement:

Boobies are back.

(Big time.)

Yes, it’s that annual rite of spring, when full-breasted women shed their layers of clothes and cleavage blooms all over the streets of New York City, also know as my favorite time of the year. 

All I can say is: God help me.  April is a very happy but dangerous time for me, as I become very sexually aggressive because of my inability to deal with the sudden and abundant appearance of boobies.  As I walked the streets yesterday, staring at beautiful women in all their boobilicious glory, I wasn’t sure if I was having a panic attack, a heart attack, or turning into a werewolf: my eyes were darting all over the place, I started breathing heavily, and I was sweating profusely.  Also, my hands got hairier.  To be safe, I took some bayer and ate some ice cream, which calmed me down.

But I should really be locked in a cage from April to May every year.  For the safety of society, there needs to be more of a smoother transition from overcoats and scarves to low-cut shirts and, well, just low-cut shirts. 

What a wonderful time of year.

*************

Look, about the fish - still no word on what it is.  The two leading contenders, judging not from any research that I’ve done but from emails I’ve received from you all, are salmon and eel.  I personally am still firmly in the Sea Monster camp, but I’ve always been drawn to the mythical.

The important lessons to learn are as follows:
1) Russians are crazy – and fun
2) You might want to stay away from canned fish for a while
3) If you have a blog, you shouldn’t post scary/disgusting pictures on it unless you want 300+ emails complaining to you

Now let’s just move on, ok? 

*************

Six Songs

"So Hard to Find My Way"  Jackie Greene
Thank you, friend Claire, for making me a mix cd and introducing this song to me.  Never fails to put a smile on my face and get my feet tapping. 

"Islands In The Stream"  Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton
Since I transferred my music from my old PC to my new Mac, the song with the most plays in my iTunes is…this one.  I don’t know how it happened either, but I’m not ashamed of it and I’m embracing it.  Also, I’m preparing a karaoke performance of this song – DOING BOTH PARTS.

(Yeah, I’m pretty impressed, too.)

"Footprints"  Squeeze 
Glenn Tilbrook has the voice of an angel.  You really should listen to more Squeeze.

"Los Tres Delinquentes"  Deliquent Habits
In high school, my buddies and I called ourselves the HCP, which stood for Hard Core Posse.  We loved and celebrated "hard core" rap, and could break it down with the best of them.  This was one of our anthems, which we could rap by heart – even though it’s (mostly) in Spanish.  And no, none of us had girlfriends at this time.  I’m happy to report that of the three founding members of the HCP, my buddy Greg is living a comfortable married life in the Midwest and is a chemist, my buddy Kyle just bought a home and was accepted into a PhD program in psychology, and two nights ago I smoked a bunch of hash and was up until 2am writing poems, mostly about dragons.  Two out of three ain’t bad.   

And just for fun, here’s the video, which I believe features Wee Man’s dad or uncle (I mean, there can’t be that many skateboarding midgets in the world).

[youtube]QwrSRZ-6jxs[/youtube]

(Also, I really want a Latin girlfriend.  Just saying.)

"Protection"  Massive Protection 
I don’t know what this song is about, I don’t listen to the lyrics, and I don’t know much about this band.  But I’m going to let you in on a little secret: no song on my "Mood" playlist, which is really my make out mix, which has recently been retitled "Let’s Make Out or Something," has gotten as much positive feedback as this song.  Sure, whatever guy I’m with is usually so drunk that he can only ask for his frat brothers and isn’t really paying attention to the music, but I can tell they usually really like this song.  Sometimes you just know.

"Time Will Cut You Down"  Priestess
I recently had a startling personal discovery: I no longer have even the least bit of antipathy toward any of my exes.  Shocking, I know.  Hatred of or anger toward exes – hell, toward everyone, really – is what has kept me going for many, many years.  But now, it’s gone.  Kaput.  Later.  I told a female friend about this and she said that perhaps I’m getting "mature."  I told her that I didn’t think it was maturity, but rather a deep and profound apathy.  I really just don’t care.  I mean, I care about some things (boobies, making sure I smell nice, go carts, etc), but as I get older, I’m realizing that it’s kind of a lot of work to hold grudges.  I guess this is one of the sad facts of aging.

What bums me out more is that I’m only discovering this song now, after the bitterness and anger have gone, as it is the perfect song to listen to while sitting alone in a dark room, stewing and thinking about your ex-wife, who is no doubt sucking off some firefighter right now, while you have to pick up an extra shift at the Subway because you’ve been spending all of your money on Pabst and lottery tickets.   

Seriously.  Try it. 

*************

As mentioned above, I’m taking the train up to Boston tonight, crashing there, and then heading down with buddies to Newport, RI for the start of a long weekend of sitting in a living room with nine other dudes, drinking beer, and, well, that’s about it.  I will document the weekend’s festivities with my new digital camera and return to you after the weekend.  Until then, have a good time – all the time.   

Because I was inundated with emails over the weekend ranging in sentiment from "Holy fucking shit – that’s terrifying!" to "Please take that down immediately," here’s much nicer picture that always puts a smile on my face.

 

 

 (And for the record, still no exact word on what the fuck that is, but a Russian reader has informed me the label says "herring."  However, she neither confirmed nor disconfirmed that the word "mutant" also appeared on the label.) 

Lisa from Philly sent me this link, which led me to these pics.

 

 

 

I have no idea what the fuck this is, but I know that it will haunt my dreams for at least the next eight years.

Happy Friday!

(PS – If anyone would like to stay with me tonight, I recently washed my sheets.  So we’re all set there.)

(Also, someone needs to figure out what the hell that is so we can slay all of its remaining living relatives.  Dragon?  Sea creature?  Monster dog?  Terrifying, all terrifying.)

If you regularly read this site (god help you if you do), you know that my old roommate Brian is a glorious disaster.  But I’ll give you a story to explain how first before we get to the multimedia part of the post.

Many years ago, Brian and I lived together in a small apartment in the Lower East Side with a random girl we met on Craigslist.  Her name was Clare.  She was British, she was a few years older than us, she was a scientist, and she was completely and utterly horrified living with us (I still feel really bad about the terror we put her through).  However, she was nice.  Once, her brother and sister visited from England and crashed in our tiny apartment, and as a sign of gratitude she bought us a bottle of export strength vodka.

At the time, Brian and I had a routine down: each Friday and Saturday night, we would split a bottle of vodka (mixed with red bulls or juice or tonic) and then go out.  We went through two bottles of vodka a weekend every weekend for about six months.  We each had our motivations: Brian drank so much before going out to save money, whereas I drank so much before going out to make myself impotent (this was when my penis used to get me in all sorts of trouble, trouble that I long for nowadays).  These drinking sessions were, as you can probably guess, fucking spectacular.

So the export strength vodka was a great gift idea for us.  Export strength is stronger than regular vodka; it’s 50 proof, whereas most vodka is 40.  So that’s 25% stronger than your normal vodka.

The next Saturday night, Brian and I took down the vodka as usual and went out.  We went over to the Bleecker Street Bar for a friend’s party.  It was only after we got there that we realized that we were very, very bombed – way, way more than we usually were.

I went up to the bar to get us some beers, Brian right behind me.  As I stood there, I noticed a cute girl to my left, sitting there with her friend.  Full of vodka and confidence, I said something to start a conversation with her (I don’t recall what).  I couldn’t quite hear her response – the bar was crowded and loud – but her words were also garbled.  So I repeated myself.  At that point, she beckoned me to come closer and whispered in my ear in a strange voice, “I’m sorry, I don’t hear very well.  I’m deaf.”

Well. 

Well well well.

My senior year of college, I took sign language.  I was pretty good at it.  For our final, my buddies Bill and Randy and I signed the Backstreet Boys’ “I Want It That Way” while it played over the stereo we brought into the classroom.  We wore matching outfits and everything and nailed it.  It was a big hit. 

As soon as this girl said she was deaf, without a second thought I broke into singing and signing “I Want It That Way” – in front of the whole bar.  I didn’t get through the whole song, but I made it pretty far; the girl (let’s call her Stacy, since I really don’t want to call her The Deaf Girl) grabbed my hands at one point, laughing, and got me to stop.  The people around us clapped.  It was actually probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever done (thank you, Export Strength Vodka).

Between my rudimentary knowledge of sign language and her ability to read lips, Stacy and I got to “talking.”  But in doing so, I noticed her friend sitting to her left was bored.  I needed someone to distract her so that I could hit on Stacy.  

I turned and looked at Brian, my only hope, and he was in bad shape.  He had a big smile on his face and looked happy and red-faced.  A man enjoying life, but not too aware of what was going on around him.  He had the bemused and awed look of an Eastern European tourist in Times Square for the first time. 

Though he wasn’t the ideal wingman, I asked him to go talk to the Friend, who was also pretty cute.  Brian nodded and, good soldier that he is, went off to her without a word.  Stacy and I were free to talk. 

I got totally into her.  She was cute and cool and funny and we got along just fine.  Sure, she was deaf, but I have my faults too, namely my baby penis.  No one is perfect, after all.  Daddy issues, ex-boyfriend issues, hearing issues – whatever. 

But as we continued to talk and drink, I felt myself getting significantly drunker.  That export strength vodka had really upped the ante, and I felt I was getting in over my head.  I started drinking more slowly, but it didn’t have much effect.  I was fucked up.  Big time.

Stacy and I had been talking – possibly for thirty minutes or two hours, I can’t recall – when I got a forceful tap on my shoulder.  I turned around to see the Friend, standing before me, pissed off.  Immediately, she started yelling.

“Your friend is the worst wingman ever!”  She then proceeded to list the things that Brian had told her, which I can’t recall (and couldn’t even the next day).  She was going off about what a bad wingman Brian was when I looked over her shoulder at the man himself.  Brian was standing a few feet behind the friend, sort of swaying in place.  He was looking down and his eyes were half-closed.  He wasn’t saying a word and could have been knocked over by a gust of wind.  He was alive and conscious, but was about as close as you can get to unconsciousness without actually being unconscious.  He was a total zombie. 

The Friend’s complaint put a damper on mine and Stacy’s conversation, and she said that it was late and she should get going anyway.  I started to panic and was pissed off – here Stacy and I had been hitting it off all night, and now she was being whisked away from me because Brian died on his feet.  As she put on her coat, sensing the moment slipping away, I anxiously asked Stacy, “So, can I have your number?”

She said, “Well, I don’t really do well on the phone, so…” 

I cut her off: “Ok, I get it.  Have a good night.”  Though I had been rejected numerous times before, this was a new one.  I had just gotten rejected by a deaf girl. 

I grabbed Brian and we walked away as Stacy and her friend left the bar.  Shortly after, we left the bar.  On the cab ride home, I left drunken voicemails for a number of my friends, complaining that I had just been rejected by a girl who can’t hear.  Moments before, I was convinced that Stacy and I would get married.  Now, I was leaving four minute voicemails to friends bemoaning the fact that a girl who can’t even hear doesn’t want me.  Again, thank you, Export Strength Vodka.

Though it was a Saturday, I had to go into work the next day.  There, with a clearer mind, I relayed the story of the previous night’s events – the “I Want It That Way,” the love, Brian turning into a zombie, then the rejection – to co-workers, some of whom I had left messages for the night before (this is when I was a legal assistant and worked with forty people ages 22-24).  It was with their help that I realized that Stacy was not exactly rejecting me; all she had said was she doesn’t do well on the phone.  I never bothered to think through that the reason she didn’t do well on the phone was probably because she is deaf.  Whoops.

We all had a laugh at my expense and around 2pm, figuring he was awake by then, I called Brian.  Because all of my co-workers were enthralled by the story and Brian’s pivotal role in it, I put him on the speaker phone so everyone in the caseroom could laugh along with us.

Me: “What a night last night, huh?”
Brian: “Yeah.  That vodka was no joke.”
Me: ”You got that right.  I still can’t believe I got rejected by that deaf girl, though.”
Brian: “What?”
Me: “Yeah, at the end of the night, I got confused and thought she was blowing me off, and so didn’t get her number.”
Brian: [thoroughly confused] “What are you talking about?”    
Me: ”The deaf girl.  Nothing came of it.”
Brian: “Deaf girl?  What deaf girl?  Are you fucking with me?”

Brian didn’t remember anything about the deaf girl.  Not me talking to her, not talking to her friend, not being called the “worst wingman in the world” – nothing.  This, of course, set the caseroom into hysterics, as my co-workers couldn’t believe that he didn’t remember a single thing.  When I told the whole story to Brian, who lived through it, it was like explaining iPods to my grandfather – shock, incredulity, and a good bit of fear. 

This is most the egregious example, but this is just how Brian rolls.  Almost every time we go out, he does his Functioning Blackout.  Of course, my friends and I are usually extremely drunk when Brian is like this, and we’ve been hanging out with him for so long now that we don’t really even notice.  

But today, my friend Nicole sent me some pictures from her birthday party a few weeks back.  Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present the first photographs of Brian in Functioning Blackout Mode.   

Aisha, Kara, and Brian, taking a rest

Nicole, Kara, and Brian, Life of the Party

Aisha, Kara, and Brian, taking time out for some water (probably a good idea, bro)

Nicole sent me a link to these pictures today they made my day.  In order to really appreciate it, you have to view the full set, which you can do here, because these three pictures are among a set of your standard girl pictures.  My female friends are all smiley in them, and then there’s an occasional picture of Brian looking like Death.  Absolutely priceless.

In the near future, I hope to buy a new digital camera, one that is slightly less small than a brick like the one I have now.  And I hope to record these moments in the name of science (and ball-busting), so that we will be able to better understand how the Functioning Blackout works and what makes him tick.

(I’m pretty sure it has something to do with Budweiser and Led Zeppelin, so at least I have a head start.)  

It’s my favorite time of the year: fantasy baseball drafting season.

Few things give me as much satisfaction as fantasy baseball.  It combines so many things that makes me happy: sports, competition, shit-talking, friends, wasting my employer’s time, being good at something, and winning.  The only things missing are boobies and beer, but I have enough of them in my life anyway.* 

[*Note: This sentence is only half-true.] 

If you’re familiar with the site, you know what I’m going to do, since I do it each year.  The following preview applies to roto drafts (fuck off, auction people) in a standard 5×5 category leagues: runs, rbis, home runs, stolen bases, and average on offense; wins, saves, strikeouts, ERA, and WHIP for pitching.  I will confess that because in my two main leagues we use OBP instead of average and total bases instead of home runs, I may be biased a little bit and offer insight in line with that bias.

Before we get to the position by position breakdown, some general, timeless, and extremely obvious rules about drafting:

1) Know your enemy.  Certain owners have certain inclinations.  For example, if you’re drafting with a bunch of guys from Boston, you can probably expect that Manny, Ortiz, Schilling, and Beckett (and Papelbon – especially Papelbon) will go off the board sooner than they should.  Alternatively, you might know that some guys favor offense to pitchers, or don’t care about closers, or will stop at nothing to get David Wright on their roster because they have a man-crush on him (Site Guy Brendan, I’m looking in your direction).  Knowing who you’re drafting against, when possible, is important in determining how to draft your team.  

2) Know your categories.  This only applies to those that are not in standard 5×5 leagues (again, 5×5 meaning Runs, Home Runs, RBI, Stolen Bases, Average and Wins, Saves, Strikeouts, ERA, WHIP).  Some leagues only have minor changes; for example, as mentioned above, my main league uses on-base percentage instead of average and total bases instead of home runs, which makes for a much better league in our opinion.

But what you have to watch for duplicative categories.  For example, in another league I’m in, the categories are: R, HR, RBI, SB, AVG, and OPS.  This means that power hitters should be especially favored in this league, for every time a power hitter hits a home run, it will affect R, HR, RBI, AVG, and OPS.  That’s five different categories.  I was even in a league once in which both strikeouts and strikeouts/9 innings were categories, so of course those high-K guys were doubly valuable.         

3) Embrace the home run.  Here’s something very simple that took me many seasons to finally realize: when in doubt, take the power hitter.  You can’t think of home runs as a single category, since every home run directly results in one run, at least one RBI, and a help in average.  Each homer affects four categories.  Some people will get cutesy and draft speed guys (affects SB and possibly average and runs) or high average guys (will affect average and potentially runs and rbis), but let them.  One home run is a guaranteed benefit for three other categories.  If you have a lot of power, you will have a lot of HR, runs, and RBIs (and as long as your team isn’t full of Adam Dunn’s, then your average shouldn’t be too bad either).    

4) Embrace the K.  I wrote a bit about this last year, when a reader took me to task for leaving Roy Halladay off my end of season Top 25 players.  To recap, I wrote: 

Few roto baseball players realize that having a pitcher on your team with a low K/9 rate actually hurts your team.  To prove this, let’s take one of my leagues from this year.  Each of the eleven teams maxed out their allotted 1400 innings.  The person who "won" strikeouts, getting 11 points in that category, finished the year 1242 strikeouts.  That’s an eyelash under 8 K/9.  The person in the middle (earning a 6) averaged 6.9 K/9 and the person in last (getting a 1) averaged 6 K/9.

Roy Halladay threw 220 innings and struck out only 132.  That’s only 5.4 K/9, well under the average for a typical last place finisher in strikeouts in any roto league.  So if you draft Halladay, you’re putting yourself in the red for K’s.  And as he will likely be your first pitcher taken, you will need to subsequently draft many high K guys, which might be difficult, as these guys typically go off the board faster than other pitchers.  And if you pick up another low K guy - Wang (3.13 K/9), Garland (4.77 K/9) and Kenny Rogers (4.36 K/9) all finished in the top three in the major leagues in wins, but were downright embarrassing in the K department – you’re basically submarining your team and guaranteeing a finish in the bottom three in strikeouts. 

I don’t need to tell you that taking a pitcher with a high-K rate is better than taking one with a low-K rate; of course you’re going to take Carlos Zambrano over Derek Lowe.  But what I’m suggesting is that it might be worthwhile to took a flier on a young, high-K guy with potential (Daniel Cabrera and Ian Snell come to mind) over vets who will give you good stuff, but nothing spectacular (like Greg Maddux or the aforementioned Garland). 

[And I realize the contradiction here: in one point, I espousing the home run, as it affects four categories.  In the next, I'm advocating strikeout guys, strikeouts being just one category.  My defense is that you can't compare offense and pitching drafting strategies.  I'm not saying that you should abandon the other pitching peripherals, but rather suggesting that if given the choice between two similar options, always that the K guy.  Whereas in offense, I'm saying that you should almost forsake speed and go like a hawk from hell after power hitters.  Dig?]

5) Know when to draft and when to pass.  People forget that the most important rule of any fantasy draft, much like the most important rule of love, is that the right person comes along at the right time. 

An example will help.  I really like Ian Kinsler this year.  I think he’s going to be terrific hitting in front of Michael Young and Mark Teixeira.  Not only that, he’s got some pop and speed too and it wouldn’t surprise me if his final line is something like 110-20-80-20-.290, which is mighty good for a 2B.    

But that doesn’t mean that I’m going to take Kinsler in the fourth round of my draft, because I won’t have to take him then.  I know (or rather, I’m confident in betting) that other guys in my league are not as high on Kinsler as I am, and will take guys like Utley, Roberts, Cano and a host of others ahead of him.  So instead of taking Ian Kinsler early, I will wait on him until later in the draft when I feel it is the right time to take him.  Until that time comes, I’m going to draft other guys I like, who I know are on my competitors’ radar screens, either because they’re highly ranked, highly touted, or they have said that they like that player. 

So I will meet Ian Kinsler early in the draft, and though I may be enamored with him, I will have to let him go and set him free.  If he comes back to me later, say in the 12th or 14th round, well, then it’s really meant to be.  And we will be together.  Forever.  Or at least until the end of the season.  

*****************************

I’ll pick the top few at each position, give a little analysis, and then name sleepers and busts.  I realize that "sleepers" and "busts" are objective, but I’ll define a sleeper as someone whose performance will exceed their draft position and a bust as someone who doesn’t live up to his draft position. 

Ok, let’s go.

CATCHER
1) Joe Mauer (Min)
2) Victor Martinez (Cle)
3) Brian McCann (Atl)
4) Mike Piazza (Oak)
5) Jorge Posada (NYY)
6) Ramon Hernandez (Bal)
7) Ivan Rodriguez (Det)
8) Kenji Johjima (Sea)
9) Michael Barrett (ChC)
10) Russell Martin (LAD)
11) AJ Pierzynski (CHW)
12) Paul LoDuca (NYM)

Analysis: There’s Joe Mauer, followed shortly by Victor Martinez and Brian McCann, followed by everyone else.  The trick with drafting a catcher, the weakest offensive position, is knowing when to draft one.  Meaning, if you don’t get one of the top three, don’t rush and take Mike Piazza in the sixth, because he won’t put up numbers comparable to other six rounders.  It’s all about value with catchers. 

Sleeper: Jorge Posada.  He’s in a contract year, feeling slightly disrespected, and in a potent lineup.  Also, he’s lost his sexiness over the years and could go very late in your draft.  Take him late and comfortably expect 70-20-85-0-.275.  Keep your eye on Russell Martin and Jason Varitek as well, and there’s my favorite slogan: "You can’t go wrong with Paul LoDuca."  I seemingly get him every year in the 19th and am ok with that.     

Bust: Joe Mauer.  Not because he’s not going to put up nice numbers, but is 90-20-90-10-.320 worth a third round pick?  Let someone else draft him guy and get a bigger bat or first or second starter instead.  Otherwise, I think Piazza, who is sexy again now in Oakland, will go higher than his numbers will warrant.   

FIRST BASE
1) Albert Pujols (StL)
2) Ryan Howard (Phi)
3) David Ortiz (Bos)
4) Lance Berkman (Hou)
5) Travis Hafner (Cle)*
6) Mark Teixiera (Tex)
7) Justin Morneau (Min)
8) Derek Lee (ChC)
9) Paul Konerko (ChW)
10) Gary Sheffield (Det)
11) Carlos Delgado (NYM)
12) Jim Thome (ChW)*
13) Nick Swisher (Oak)
14) Prince Fielder (Mil) 
15) Richie Sexson (Sea)
16) Jason Giambi (NYY)
17) Todd Helton (Col)
18) Adrian Gonzalez (SDG)
19) Lyle Overbay (Tor)
20) Frank Thomas (Tor)*

(*Assuming Hafner, Thome and Thomas qualify at 1B)

Analysis: This is the money position; those first seven 1B should be gone by the start of the third round in your draft, as each are capable of 100-40-120-0-.300 – and in some cases a lot more.  While there is great depth at 1B, it’s important not too ignore the position too much and think, "Well, I’ll just get Lyle Overbay in the 15th."  Not that that would be a bad pick, but you must consider that your competitors may have one or two of those mashers at 1B, and you don’t want to have 80-25-85-0-.275 coming out of the 1B position when the rest of the guys in your league have 95-35-105-0-.300 in that spot.     

Sleeper: A few guys I like here: Gary Sheffield, who seems very pissed off; Adrian Gonzalez, who put up stellar numbers as a rookie in a pitcher’s park – look for him to continue an upward trend; and also Adam LaRoche, Conor Jackson, and if he qualifies, Michael Cuddyer.   

Bust: Hate to say this, but I have to go with Ryan Howard (and yes, I know I said this last year – he batted .140-something against lefties the year before!).  The thing is, Ryan Howard will be a top five pick in your draft.  But I don’t think he’ll be able to replicate the monstrous numbers he put up last year.  So why not take Mark Teixeira with the 20th pick in your draft and get numbers just a cut below?  That’s all I’m saying about that, except from I hope I’m wrong and Ryan Howard clubs 80 homers on the way to a Phillies’ World Series championship.   

SECOND BASE
1) Chase Utley (Phi)
2) Brian Roberts (Bal)
3) Chone Figgins (LAA)
4) Robinson Cano (NYY)
5) Rickie Weeks (Mil)
6) Ian Kinsler (Tex)
7) Julio Lugo (Bos)
8) Howie Kendrick (LAA)
9) Brandon Phillips (Cin)
10) Dan Uggla (Fla)
11) Jeff Kent (LAD)
12) Josh Barfield (Cle)

Analysis: If all the second basemen in the majors got a band together, it could be called "Chase Utley and the Gang of Marginals."  Good lord.  Utley is a late first/early second round pick, and, similar to the catching position, it’s important where you draft these lesser players.  Will there be that great a disparity between, say, Brian Roberts, who will go off the board fairly early, and Rickie Weeks, who will stick around a lot longer?      

Sleeper: Jeff Kent is so unsexy he’s sexy.  He doesn’t steal, but when he plays, he hits.  Josh Barfield has some serious potential in that Cleveland lineup (though I’d love to see him hitting second), and don’t forget about Orlando Hudson (Ari) and Chris Burke (Hou) who will put up some solid numbers this year.  

Bust: Two things: Robinson Cano will not hit .340 this year.  This doesn’t exactly make him a bust, because he’s still a Yankee, but expect more like .305 (which is fine).  And if you’re drafting Julio Lugo* and expecting 30+ steals, well, you’ve got another thing coming, my friend.  

(*Lugo qualifies at and will play SS for the Red Sox, but I wanted to include him here because he qualifies and this position is thinner.)

SHORTSTOP
1) Jose Reyes (NYM)
2) Derek Jeter (NYY)
3) Jimmy Rollins (Phi)
4) Hanley Ramirez (Fla)
5) Miguel Tejada (Bal)
6) Rafael Furcal (LAD)
7) Michael Young (Tex)
8) Troy Glaus (Tor)
9) Carlos Guillen (Det)
10) Felipe Lopez (Was)
11) Bill Hall (Mil)
12) Edgar Renteria (Atl)

Analysis: Two years ago, Michael Young was a late first/early second round pick.  Now he’s the 7th best fantasy shortstop in the league.  There’s a good amount of depth here and your basic decision is between speed guys (Rollins, Ramirez, Furcal, Lopez) and run producers (Tejada, Young, Glaus, Guillen).

Sleeper:  I like Michael Young a lot, precisely because he was a much higher pick a year or two ago and his numbers haven’t changed much – he’s not sexy compared to the rest of the guys on the list.  I also like Edgar Renteria to put up very solid numbers and, in deep leagues, I’m kinda intrigued by this Tulowitzki character in Colorado. 

Bust: Look, I love Derek Jeter.  I think he’s gorgeous and would sleep with him after only one beer.  But he’s not going to finish as the 4th ranked player like he did last year.  Derek had a career year last year - his 97 rbis were the most since 1999 (102) and a +27 and +19 improvement over the past two years, his 34 stolen bases were a career high and 20 more than last year and 11 more than the year before, and his .344 average was his highest since 1999 (.349) after batting .309 in 2005 and .292 in 2004.  Draft him, but expect more like 115-12-70-20-.310, not 118-14-97-34-.344.  Impressive, but not quite the same. 

THIRD BASE
1) Alex Rodriguez (NYY)
2) David Wright (NYM)
3) Miguel Cabrera (Fla)
4) Aramis Ramirez (ChC)
5) Garrett Atkins (Col)
6) Ryan Zimmerman (Was)
7) Chone Figgins (LAA)
8) Troy Glaus (Tor)
9) Chipper Jones (Atl)
10) Chad Tracy (Ari)
11) Scott Rolen (Stl)
12) Alex Gordon (KC)

Analysis: Like 1B, there’s a major glut of power at the top – those first five guys should all be gone by the start of the fourth round, and the top three should be gone by the middle of the second.  I may take some flack for putting Cabrera, who is undoubtedly the superior hitter, behind Wright, but my logic is that a) Wright steals more and b) Wright is in a better lineup.  Also, have you seen David Wright?  He’s fucking beautiful.

(This is getting very gay, very quickly.)   

Sleeper: I love Alex Gordon but I’m not in love with him – both he and Mark Teahan could have 90-20-90-10-.290 seasons.  Also pretty into Adrian Beltre and Joe Crede, but if your league counts OBP that could be a problem.

Bust: No one really jumps out at me as a bust, but I guess the closest would be Scott Rolen and Chipper Jones, since they’re both very fragile.  However, that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t draft them; I would just make sure the guys ahead of them are already gone. 

(How is that for analysis?)

OUTFIELD (or "The Section that Took Me Seven Hours")
1) Alfonso Soriano (ChC)
2) Carlos Beltran (NYM)
3) Carl Crawford (TB)
4) Vladimir Guerrero (LAA)
5) Lance Berkman (Hou)
6) Matt Holliday (Col)
7) Grady Sizemore (Cle)
8) Jason Bay (Pit)
9) Manny Ramirez (Bos)
10) Carlos Lee (Hou)
11) Bobby Abreu (NYY)
12) Andrew Jones (Atl)
13) Ichiro Suzuki (Sea)
14) Jermaine Dye (ChW)
15) Vernon Wells (Tor)
16) Johnny Damon (NYY)
17) Gary Sheffield (Det)
18) Hideki Matsui (NYY)
19) Adam Dunn (Cin)
20) JD Drew (Bos)
21) Chone Figgins (LAA)
22) Nick Swisher (Oak)
23) Rocco Baldelli (TB)
24) Torii Hunter (Min)
25) Alex Rios (Tor)
26) Jeff Francoeur (Atl)
27) Michael Cuddyer (Min)
28) Pat Burrell (Phi)
29) Barry Bonds (SF)
30) Magglio Ordonez (Det)

Analysis: I could have kept ranking up to about 60, but I had to stop myself lest I have an apoplectic seizure.  To me, guys 1-5 on that list are A guys, 6-12 are B, and the rest are C.  You need at least one guy from Group A or B to give your OF some punch.  This is how I draft OF spots every year.    

(Oh yeah – Barry Bonds will hit 35 home runs this year.)

Sleeper: So many…Andrew Jones (contract year); Ichiro (contract year); Swisher (quiet, forgotten, spectacular numbers – the average will go up); Mike Cameron (always 20-20); Willy Taveras (could lead the NL in steals); Aaron Rowand (full year could produce 20-20 with a good number of runs); Dave Roberts (fifth in the majors in steals last year – can get him way after Juan Pierre); Moises Alou (career .300 hitter hitting behind Reyes, LoDuca, Beltran and Delgado and in front of David Wright); Kenny Lofton (leading off in Texas is good for 100 runs, 25+ stolen bases); Shane Victorino (should steal 30 bases). 

Bust: I’m a little weary of Matt Holliday.  Last year he went 70-22-78-5-.378 at Coors and 49-12-36-5-.280 away. But there’s no reason that shouldn’t continue and he can’t put up good numbers again (unless he gets traded or something).  Down also on Jermaine Dye, just because I don’t see him replicating those numbers, and Vernon Wells, who had a career year last year and got his mega-contract.  And while we’re here, JD Drew (he’s a pussy, so good luck with the Boston media, and injury prone); Chris Duncan (don’t see him hitting 30 homers); and Gary Matthews (don’t think I needed to tell you that one). 

STARTING PITCHER
1) Johan Santana (Min)
2) Carlos Zambrano (ChC)
3) Roy Oswalt (Hou)
4) Chris Carpenter (Stl)
5) Brandon Webb (Ari)
6) Jake Peavy (SDG)
7) Roy Halladay (Tor)
8) John Smoltz (Atl)
9) CC Sabetha (Cle)
10) Brett Myers (Phi)
11) Jeremy Bonderman (Det)
12) Daisuke Matsuzaka (Bos)
13) Aaron Harang (Cin)
14) John Lackey (LAA)
15) Felix Hernandez (Sea)
16) Jason Schmidt (LAA)
17) Andy Pettite (NYY)
18) Ben Sheets (Mil)
19) Erik Bedard (Bal)
20) Scott Kazmir (TB)
21) Dan Haren (Oak)
22) Cole Hamels (Phi)
23) Matt Cain (SF)
24) Chris Young (SDG) 
25) Bronson Arroyo (Cin) 
26) Dontrelle Willis (Fla)
27) Curt Schilling (Bos)
28) Jonathan Papelbon (Bos)
29) Josh Beckett (Bos)
30) Mike Mussina (NYY)

Analysis: Like OF, I could have gone on forever here.  What interests me the most about pitchers this is the lack of dominant guys but the depth of decent guys.  This is my seventh year of doing fantasy baseball, and there’s never been a more appropriate year to stack up on offense and go after pitchers late; long gone are the days of drafting Pedro, Randy, Schilling, Schmidt and Santana all before the end of the second.  This year, I’ll take bats and won’t take Halladay in the third if I can get Pettite in the 8th and Beckett in the 11th.     

Sleeper: I’m kinda running out of gas and my eyes are starting to bleed, so I’ll just list some names: Bonderman, Schmidt, Zito, Randy Johnson, Glavine.  Worth noting is that any of the guys listed 18-23, with the exception of Danny Haren, could win a Cy Young in the next three years.  For what it’s worth, Dice-K will go 15 wins, 200 K’s, 4.00 ERA.   

Bust: Same as above: Carpenter, Papelbon, Jered Weaver, Verlander, Wang.  I’m also terrified of Curt Schilling.  I mean that literally – he’s 300 pounds. 

RELIEF PITCHER  
1) Francisco Rodriguez (LAA)
2) Joe Nathan (Min)
3) Billy Wagner (NYM)
4) BJ Ryan (Tor)
5) Mariano Rivera (NYY)
6) Huston Street (Oak)
7) Trevor Hoffman (SDG)
8) JJ Putz (Sea)
9) Bobby Jenks (ChW)
10) Chad Cordero (Was)
11) Chris Ray (Bal)
12) Tom Gordon (Phi)
13) Takashi Saito (LAD)
14) Brian Fuentes (Col)
15) Bob "Hoagie" Wickman (Atl)
16) Jason Isringhausen (Stl)
17) Todd Jones (Det)
18) Ryan Dempster (ChC)

Analysis: I stopped at 18, because the way I see it, these guys are (relatively) safe in that no one is on the horizon, ready to take their job.  It’s hard to predict sleepers and busts with closers, because one bad week by a closer can get him removed from the job.  Interesting potential high-risk/high-reward picks are Brad Lidge (who’s getting lit up this spring) and Eric Gagne (who just started pitching in spring training today – gave up a leadoff homer but retired the next three batters). 

Drafting closers changes from owner to owner.  If you’re one of those guys who watches the 2am Sportscenter to pick up the latest hot hand, you’re better off drafting lesser closers in later rounds and keeping on top of the waiver wire.  However, I know a number of guys who prefer to take F-Rod or Nathan in the fourth, Ray or Cordero in the 10th, and not have to worry about saves.  To each his own, but I prefer the former strategy. 

**************

So that’s it.  I need a fucking nap.  I mean, wow.

I will say this, however: I just read over this preview and unlike last year, when I fudged a little here and there, knowing that guys in my league read this post, this particular preview is pretty much straight dirt.  These rankings came right off my cheat sheets.  So while I’m sure I’ll get a number of emails pissed at me for a) writing about sports or b) arguing about the rankings, at least know that every competitor in each of the three drafts I have in the next week are going to know exactly who I like and who I don’t like.

But sometimes you have to make sacrifices for art.

I aim to post every day this week for being such a jerk lately, but I’m hung up today writing my annual 5,000 word fantasy baseball preview, which will be up tomorrow.

So to give you something that will kill a total of four minutes of your day and (hopefully) make you laugh, I submit the clip below from one of the funniest movies of all time, Spinal Tap.

[youtube]fKxbpo433Kk[/youtube]   

I mean, I am just in awe of this scene.  I know that nothing destroys humor like analyzing it, but the chemistry between these three is remarkable.  Watching their delivery and the way they play off each other…well, it just really, really turns me on.     

I can’t express the importance these few minutes have had on my life, particularly in the way I converse with friends.  The line "best leave it unsolved" has peppered my conversations with friends for years, used primarily to describe questionably make-out sessions or monster shits or waking up in a piss-soaked bed with another man’s wallet in your pocket, two missing teeth, and a medium-sized dog walking around your apartment. 

Sigh.  Those were the days.  I miss that fucking dog.

When I went to bed last night, still drunk, after having eaten a re-heated Anna’s burrito and a sundae, I thought I was going to die.  Four hours later, when I woke up at 5am to catch the Limoliner from Boston to NYC so that I could go to work today, I was hallucinating and paranoid.  I spent the entire bus ride convinced that the driver, a portly red-faced fellow in his mid-60’s, was going to have a heart attack and everyone on board would be killed in the resulting crash.  Also, I pooped on the bus.  Not recommended.

This what the weekend in Boston did to me.  Because my mind is too scattershot to form anything coherent (you know, ’cause I’m usually very coherent), ten random thoughts on the weekend.

Train ride drinking
As I mentioned Friday, getting drunk on a train is VERY underrated.  I got the 7pm Acela on Thursday night and after decompressing for an hour, I headed over the cafe car to get two cans of Bud and fired up the new laptop to watch "Borat."

I’ve always thought that drinking in a moving vehicle is fun, possibly because it’s rare and (most of the time) illegal.  But the spirit must have moved me on Thursday night, because I really crushed beers on that train ride.  Each time I went up I bought two at once and had eight beers on the ride, having a grand old time, watching "Borat", listening to music, and throwing an amazing one-man party on the train.  The car vs. train vs. Limoliner vs. flight debate just got a whole lot more interesting, as I had never before taken such advantage of the $4 cans of Bud in the cafe car.  When I have to go to Boston again next week, en route to my buddy Joe’s bachelor party, I know how I’m getting there.

(Next week’s train movie: Tombstone.  I just hope that if anyone sits next to me, they won’t be uncomfortable with my constant quoting and the inevitable tear up when Morgan dies and when Virgil says, "Don’t worry, Allie girl – I still got one good arm to hold you with."  Gets me every time, probably because I once dated a girl with one arm.  Tell you what though, what she lacked in the arm department she more than made up in moxie.  I miss that crazy one-armed hag.) 

"But you started him"
Finally got around to watching "Borat", which I bought last week.  And while it’s not quite as good as I thought it would be – I was expecting the cinematic equivalent that wondrous day when I met my now ex-wife for the first time – it’s fucking spectacular and pretty much everything you could ask for: quotable, short, obscene, and satirically racist/sexist/anti-Semitic/homophobic.  So, perfect.

(The above quote comes from the deleted scene in which Borat is getting a message by an effeminate masseuse.  Borat flips over and has an erection and asks the man if he will "finish him."  When the man says no, Borat counters, "But you started him."  You can bet that if I ever find myself in an adult situation again, I will be using this line.  However, do not bet that I will find myself in an adult situation again.  You might as well just burn your fucking money.)

(God, I’m so lonely.)

(Well, not really.  But it’s fun to say that, and it scares the hell out of my mom.)

Zombie
It is now conceivable that I will never sleep more than six hours in a night again.  As I wrote recently, every few weeks I’ll go through a stretch of mild insomnia that is brought on either by the weather, stress, or chlamydia (which is, by the way, not as curable as you might think).  However, it usually "breaks" in the form of one night of near-death 12+ hour sleeping.  I was hoping this would happen on Thursday night.

When I showed up at my buddy Joe and his fiancée Danielle’s apartment on that night, I was already pretty drunk (see above).  Then Joe and I had a few beers before calling it a night around midnight.  Joe and Dani have a beautiful apartment with a spare bedroom and bathroom that I destroy every time I visit them ("it looks like it was hit by a hair monsoon").  The bed in their spare bedroom is so comfortable it’s comparable to sleeping in the loving arms of Brooklyn Decker (and trust me – I know from experience).  Joe and my other friends had to work a half-day on Friday, meaning I wouldn’t have to be up until after noon.  The beers, the bed, the late wake-up – all elements for a night of dynamite sleeping and a potential break in my insomnia.  I got ready for bed, took some Bayer to prevent a hangover, took some Xanax to help ease into sleepy land, and then went to bed just after midnight.

Then I woke up at 4am and couldn’t fall back asleep until 6am.  Then I woke up at 7:30am and just lay there in bed, discovering myself (sorry Joe and Dani).  Basically, no good sleep that night.

Or any night in Boston.  The constant boozing didn’t help any, but I slept so poorly and so little up there that I really should be in a hospital right now.  I’m sitting in my office feeling faint, having hot flashes, and feeling very emotional.  I don’t know if I need a drink, a nap, or just someone to make out with.  But since I’m not a doctor, all I can do is go home tonight, abuse some NyQuil, and pray that I get some solid sleep.  Because this is just not good.  

sports sports sports sports
What do you get when you take seven guys and put them in a 12×12 apartment with unlimited beers, a giant bag of pot, specialty Italian meats, cheeses and rolls brought up from Brooklyn, and twelve hours of college basketball?  Besides a stopped up toilet and furniture that will smell of a delicate mix of burps, ass, and smoke for the rest of its life, you get My Idea of Heaven.

Even more than the St. Patrick’s Day parade, which is the main reason for my annual mid-March visit to Boston, the Friday of drinking/pot smoking/overeating/basketball watching is becoming my favorite.  It was perfect this year, simple in its charms, just a bunch of dudes talking sports and women and life and drinking beers.  The only way to improve on that would have been if the night had ended with a slow dance or a lovemaking session in the snow.  Otherwise, perfect.  Well, there was no carrot cake at my buddy Dave’s place, which bummed me out a bit, but I got over it.  

Winter wonderland
On Tuesday, it was 65 degrees in Boston.  So it is only fitting that on Friday night, a fairly large winter storm hit the city and dropped five inches of snow on the ground.

This is what we were greeted with when we finally left my buddy Dave’s apartment on Friday evening: snow, swirling and biting winds, and frigid New England air.  Since we were in Southie, and since I was staying with Joe in Back Bay, that meant that he and I had to leave almost immediately after entering the bar if we wanted to make it back.  Cabs in Boston are terrible (see below).

So Joe and I pulled an Irish exit, left without telling our friends, and headed out into the angry storm to try to hail a cab.  Though when I’m in the shower and reaching for the shampoo I may look like a bear going after salmon, I do not do well in the cold weather.  Since it’s Boston, we had to wait the minimum ten minutes for a cab, then added another ten on top of that because of the weather.  At first, I limited my complaining to relevant annoyances, like "I’m cold!" and "It’s fucking freezing!" and "Don’t they have any fucking cabs in this fucking city!" before breaking down completely into a mess of shivers and sobs.  And Joe and I made have had a fight a la Harry and Lloyd ("Your hands are freezing!").  

So yeah, thanks again God, for the nice weather.  Prick. 

Worst Man
I was my buddy Steve’s best man last year in Jamaica, so being my buddy Joe’s best man next month does not phase me.  However, Steve’s wedding was different, as it was held on a beach in the evening after everyone had been drinking pina coladas at the pool for nine hours.  Hell, everyone was so drunk and happy that my only real best man responsibility was "Don’t let Steve kill anyone and/or drown."  Mission accomplished, and I was hailed as a hero.  It was awesome.  

Joe’s wedding is more traditional – think less sunburned people and pina coladas and more tuxedos and gin drinks.  This don’t concern me none, as I is what I is.  But it certainly concerns Joe’s fiancée Danielle, a fact I learned only after walking out of the shower in only a towel and into their living room, saying, “Did you guys hear anything about a Sasquatch sighting?  Something came over the CB about it.  Have you guys seen a Sasquatch?  Guys?”

Shortly after, Danielle and I (and Joe) had a “heart-to-heart” about my responsibilities as best man.  Dani expressed concerned that since I’m “fun and awesome” (my words) or “kinda scary and creepy and how is there chest hair in the kitchen” (her words) I might, um, negatively impact the wedding.  I can’t say I blame here her; I told my original best man speech to my buddy John, one of the groomsman in the wedding, and when I was done his critique was only one sentence: “Danielle will never speak to you again if you give that speech.”  Word got back to Danielle and I guess that made her apprehensive.  

But I think that after our talk, I allayed her fears.  Of course, I spent the rest of the weekend bothering here:

Me: “Danielle, what’s the worst curse word I can say in the speech?”
Dani: [exasperated] “I don’t know, Jason…what word are you thinking of?”
Me: “Well, I have a nice line with the phrase ‘cockus maximus.’  Will that work?”
Dani: [walking away]
Me: “If it’s any consolation, I don’t say it about Joe.  I use it in a story about a horse I had growing up.”
Dani: [closes door to bedroom]

Long line of lines
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Boston has nothing on New York City when it comes to nightlife.  In Boston, even the shittiest bars have lines, the bouncers are supreme assholes, and the bars are packed with Massholes who would love nothing more than to start a fight with you.  Ugh.  I don’t think I’ve ever waited in a line for a bar in NYC and have been close to fighting maybe three times in six years.  Every time I go to Boston there is some line involved and a fight is a very real possibility. 

Nice place to visit, but I could never live there.  You guys keep the long lines, the Massholes, the sprawl, and the 1:30am last call – I’ll stick to going to any bar I want at 1am, getting there conveniently, and drinking my face off until 4am (and getting pizza, of course).  

I don’t know, cabs maybe?
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the cab situation in Boston is infuriating.  Another comparison: I can walk out of my apartment and find a cab in under thirty seconds.  Hell, I can walk out of any bar in Manhattan and find a cab in under a minute.

In Boston, forget it.  I’m so disgusted by this that I can’t even write about it, since my doctor has said that I need to decrease stress in my life.  Suffice it to say that it’s very difficult to get a cab in Boston anytime, but especially after 1:30am.  And, oh yeah, it’s really cold there.

[Deep breaths…] 

Drunken hotel stays
You know when you know you’ve probably had too much to drink?  When you’re at the bar with your friends, you come out of the bathroom and see they’re not there, and instead of looking for them in, say, another part of the bar, you assumed they’ve left you and you leave the bar.  Then you get fired up and call and text the hell out of them.  Then you try to flag a cab down, but you can’t, since it’s Boston.  Then you get so frustrated that you see a Marriott and say to yourself, “Fuck it all to hell – I’m staying there tonight.”  So you check in to the hotel and drop $240 (!) on a room (and you know if the man behind the counter had said “$900”, you still would have paid it).  Then you settle into the room, curse as you get ready for bed, and your cell phone rings.  Turns out it’s your buddy you’re staying with, asking where the hell you are, saying that he and your friends went to the downstairs part of the bar and are still there.  Then you scream aloud a made-up curse word, hang up the phone, and fall asleep in that hotel room thinking of all the better ways you could have spent $240.

That’s when you know you’ve had too much to drink.

[I realize that’s only nine thoughts about the weekend, but I’m too disgusted with myself to keep going.  Overall, fun weekend.]

[But if you guys want to send some donations, they would be most appreciated.  I’m pretty sure my check to the cable company is now going to bounce and a new “First 48” is on this week.  So there's that.] 

Mad props to Ace Cowboy, investigative journalist/cameraman extraordinaire, whose videos of Wednesday night’s terrible shooting in the Village (one block away from his apartment) have been picked up by all sorts of media outlets.  I didn’t get a chance to read his post or see the videos until after I arrived in Boston last night.  After doing so, I knew they were special, but I didn’t realize how special until I woke up at 8:50 this morning after missing a call and listened this voicemail:

“Hi Jas, it’s your mother.  Listen, [National News Show] called asking about some footage that your friend shot – they want to get in touch with him.  Call them back at…”

At first, since I’m hungover (getting drunk on a train is VERY underrated, by the way), I thought I was dreaming.  But the message was legit and only confirmed after speaking to Ace.  And way to call my mom, crazy journalists.   

It’s an absolute tragedy that has left many of my friends very shaken up, but I applaud Ace for keeping his head and later writing a great summary of the events.  You can read his post and see the videos here.

As a purveyor of murder shows and all things criminal on television (and, increasingly, in books), I thoroughly enjoy that dashing Chris Hansen and his "To Catch A Predator" series on Dateline NBC.  I try to watch it whenever I’m home on a weeknight (which is to say, five nights a week) and if for some reason I’m at work or have scheduled a full night of masturbating in the shower, I tivo it.  Few shows on television make me happier than "To Catch A Predator."

That is because few things make me happier than busting pedophiles.  Please don’t mistake me; I do not mean this because I *heart* justice or anything.  As a matter of fact, I am quite opposed to justice.  I had a run in with The Man just yesterday (apparently in NYC it’s illegal to walk along Broadway in Soho screaming, "Dick sucking!  Get your dick sucking here!  Uncle Jason needs a pair of new shoes and he’s got a monkey to feed!  Diiiiiick sucking!  Hey-yo!").

Busting pedophiles makes me happy because it shows me that no matter how down I am or how bad I think my life is, it’s not even close to the level of these guys.  Sure, I may be so in debt that I will have to fake my own death sometime in the next fiscal year and the most successful relationships I’ve had in the past four years have with a television channel and a cheap beer, but at least I’m not getting caught on national TV trying to fuck a kid.  Talk about the worst predicament possible, with no possible way of talking about it.  Not only is your pedophilia discovered, but 20 million people know about it.  So yeah, so what if sometimes I like to tell people I’m an ex-Marine who lost his family in a camping disaster – at least I’m not diddling kids.

(I don’t think – I don’t check for ID.)

(Usually.)

Anyway, the most recent "To Catch A Predator" was a sort of behind-the-scenes clip show, which followed some of the predators through the court system after they were caught.  This episode taught me something very important: Los Angeles County is a pedophile’s heaven.  Of the 20 or so guys who got busted in the "Predator" sting there, the majority got 30 days probation.  Compare that to those who got busted in Georgia, where the minimum sentence was two years in jail with eight years probation and upwards to six years with 25 years probation (!). 

To recap: sending pictures of your genitals to a minor, talking dirty to the minor, and then meeting that minor with intent to fuck him/her will get you 30 days probation in LA.  You’re free to do as you please, but basically have a babysitter for a month.  In Georgia, the same crimes mean you’re going to jail for at least two years, where you will be alternatively fucked and beaten by giant black men and/or angry white supremacists and more than likely will get shivved at some point.

So go West, pederasts – LA is calling you.  No wonder Jesus Quintana lived there.  

**************** 

I think it’s safe to say that my new Mac is changing my life. 

I could list the ways it’s superior to my old PC, but the Mac ads have done a pretty good job of that.  So I’ll let you in on a lesser-known reason why Macs (or at least, my type of Mac – the black Macbook) are superior.

iChat. 

iChat is basically IM with a camera.  See, my laptop has a lil’ camera on the top pane of the screen.  My old roommate Ben, now in Seattle, has a Mac laptop with the camera, too.  So when I sign on to IM and I see Ben, instead of just writing words back and forth to each other, we have actual video conversations.  One click, and there’s Ben, right on my screen from his living room in Seattle.

Admittedly, I’m both slow and dumb when it comes to technology, but I cannot stress enough that this blows my fucking mind.  Last week when I got home from work on Friday, I logged in about 8pm and saw Ben on and we spent the next two hours drinking together.  Just sitting there, having drinks, 2400 miles apart, but like we were in the same apartment.   I mean, holy crap.

(I don’t know if you guys are impressed by this or not, but my brains are all over the floor right now just talking about iChat.  It’s just awesome, and I don’t mean that in the "cool" way, but as in the "I am filled with awe because of it" way.  Just so you know.)

My buddy Joe in Boston has Mac with a camera as well, but hadn’t set up his iChat.  He did so once he got back to Boston after visiting me this past weekend, now he and I have video talks all the time.  My buddy Bill was so impressed with this feature that he is now buying a Mac (my buddy Kyle is not far behind).  This thing is blowing minds, everywhere.

But what bums me out about the Mac, specifically the iChat, is that I wish I had access to this sooner – for, of course, entirely sexual purposes.  My romantic history is a messy litany of drunken making out, premature ejaculation, unfilled sexual desires, and, for our purposes, long distance relationships.  Though I’ve spent 26.5 of my 27 years in the Northeast, I’ve dated women who’ve lived (at least part of the time) in Denver, Los Angeles, London, and Sydney.  If there’s anything I realize about myself and women, it’s that the further away the woman I’m seeing lives, the more I care about her.  I have always mistaken "inconvenience" for "fate" in this regard.      

(I’ve also had trouble differentiating between "indifference" and "passion."  So if you care about me and live next door to me, we are not going to get along.  At all.) 

(Have I mentioned that my parents got divorced during my formative years?  Yes?  Ok.  Just checking.) 

Back in the days when I was "into" long distance relationships, the iChat/Macbook would have been perfect.  My biggest problem with being in a long distance relationship was that I missed just seeing the person.  I am like a sexual camel and could do without the regular sex – I will take a long weekend of fucking like pheromone-injected apes every five weeks over "God, we’ve been dating for two months and I’m already sick of doing you" sex any day of the week – but it was most difficult to just not see the other person (or persons – long story).

(Also, I cheated a bunch, so saying I could do without regular sex is not entirely true.  Don’t judge.) 

But with the video chat – good god, I almost want to search a Minsk dating site to find a nice girlfriend who can teach me about her culture and enjoy me and my American money every two months but not make me have lunch with her parents when I have a fantasy baseball draft or get pissed when I have "boys’ night" three nights a week.  We are opening a pandora’s box here, ladies and gentlemen.  And in truth, I am afraid.

(I really didn’t actually "cheat" but this is not the time nor the place.)

****************

On a serious note, kinda disturbing that my friends Jeremy and Meredith live on the street where this went down, and I spent a good portion of my time at their place (you can actually see Jeremy and Meredith’s stoop in one of the photos).  I was just there Sunday evening, watching "Borat."  First, their/my local Taco Bell goes down.  Now there are gunfights on the street. 

I may have to move back to Philly.

****************

My favorite Mexican place in NYC is Festival Mexicano.  It’s a dive, and you have to practically bring a toilet with you when you eat there (or at least, carry one around with you after leaving), but it’s fucking dynamite. 

When I used to live in the Lower East Side, my old roommate Ben and I would order there all the time.  As two "big" guys, we’d get a fairly large amount of food, and would take great delight when the food was delivered with four or five sets of forks and knives, even though only Ben and I were eating.  It was almost as if the Mexicans in the kitchen preparing the food said to themselves, "Dios mio!  This must be for a large family, ese!"

I hadn’t eaten there in months, but I went there this week to grab some take-out.  It had been an especially stressful day at work (as it has been for some time: see, lack of posting) and I had only eaten a bowl of cereal in the morning and a granola bar.  Naturally, when I got there at 8pm, I unleashed a reign of terror on that menu the likes of which haven’t been seen since Cinco de Mayo 2000.  I ordered, waited, got the food, and headed home, dying to get down to business.  

And what did I find in the bag?  Three sets of forks and knives.      

…

You know what?  I was originally pissed off at them for putting three sets of silverware in my takeout bag, but after reading over what I’ve written and knowing that I ate all the food I ordered and almost threw up in bed later that night, I deserve the three sets of silverware.  I am a fat bastard, and it’s time for me to accept that.

Speaking of being a fat bastard…   

****************

Ice cream review: Haagen Dazs Banana Split.

Oh, chocolate.  You bring so much into our lives, but sometimes you step out of bounds.  Maybe you don’t mean to, or maybe you’re just a cocky asshole, but you can occasionally really fuck things up.  There is no better example of this then in Haagen Dazs’ Banana Split ice cream.

Simply put, if you take the thick swirls of fudge out of this mix, you have an A or even A+ ice cream.  The base ice creams – banana and whip cream (!) – complement each other very well, as do the chunks of cherries and strawberries.  But between the soft creaminess of the ice cream and the sweetness of the fruit runs this thick skid-mark of fudge, smeared down and throughout the ice cream.  I tried to eat around it, but that proved useless.  So I accepted it and went on eating away, but by the end was so offended by the presence of the fudge that I was indignant.

(I think this is the appropriate time to mention that that weed I picked up in Greenpoint last weekend is pretty good.)

So though while it has lots of potential, the swirl of chocolate fudge hurts the overall rating of the Banana Split ice cream.  Grade: B.

****************

Six Songs

"Echo Park"  Joseph Arthur
I know I’ve recommended this song before, but it’s gotta be said: this is about the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard.  No exaggeration.  Go ahead – I dare you to find a more beautiful song.  I’m pretty sure that this is going to be my wedding song, regardless of what my bride thinks (traditional Laotian music be damned!).   Just as while doing dishes I heard this song for the first time and it stopped me in my tracks, every time this song randomly comes on my iPod, it’s a moment – "Everybody shut up, close your eyes, and listen!"  Spectacular, almost literally breathtaking. 

"Sooner or Later"  Marah
If this song doesn’t make you stand up, swill your beer, and stomp your feet, you and I can’t be friends.  I don’t think I know of another modern band capable of writing such catchy music while not compromising their rock-ness in the least.  And they’re from Philly!  Fucking A.  

"Because the Night"  10,000 Maniacs (mp3 not available)
Something seriously stirred in my pants when I first heard Natalie’s voice crack in the bridge (or whatever – a little over two minutes in) when she sings "Take me now" the second time.  I mean, we can all agree that she’s hot in this video, right?  Or is it just me? 

[youtube]nR1rylYdUxA[/youtube]

"Tomboy"  Bettie Serveert (mp3 not available)
I feel both cooler and more sexually charged when I listen to this song.  So there’s that.  

"Glad and Sorry"  The Faces
Ever since seeing their BBC Crown Jewels special, I’ve been getting back into this band.  This is a nice little ditty with a catchy piano riff that makes me want to smoke cigarettes on a porch to a house in the suburbs in May.  Straight up.  

"Bertha"  The Grateful Dead 
Probably my favorite Grateful Dead song – at least right now it is.  Back in the days when I was hippie and could name (at the time) all 28 non-bootleg GD albums (this ‘91-’92, before Dick’s Picks and the like), this song never failed to get me pumped up and was a big reason I begged my mom for a guitar for Christmas.  It still gets me pumped up, but more so it fills me with nostalgia for those days when I didn’t have problems like rent, bills, unwanted pregnancies, and tons and tons of body hair.  

Sigh.  Those were some good times.  

****************

Off to Boston until Monday to enjoy the St. Patty’s Day parade in Southie.  Wish me luck and have a good, safe weekend.

About four years ago, my old roommate Brian and I were snowed in our tiny, fifth floor apartment in Lower East Side.  A major storm had hit and dumped over a foot of snow on New York City and both our offices had closed, giving us a rare snow day off.  It was a Monday.  Our apartment was disaster from the weekend: empty beer cans, ash trays overflowing with cigarettes, and pizza boxes and crusts were strewn about.  We sat there in the filth, unable to go out because of the snow and unable to clean because of our laziness/hangovers, and did the only thing we could think of: sat around and smoked a lot of pot.  Also, I jerked off.  Twice.

(But in the privacy of my bedroom, not in the living room with Brian.  Well, one time I started in the living room, but took it to the bedroom for the crescendo.)

After a while, I got a food craving.  I decided that if I did not get nachos within the hour, a murder-suicide might occur – or at least I would end up shaving all my pubes (it was pretty dope weed).  No one would deliver nachos in such inclement weather, but I didn’t want diner or restaurant nachos, the kind piled high with cheese and beans and sour cream and salsa and beef/chicken/chili.  I wanted movie nachos, the shitty kind that come in the plastic tray with two dozen cheap, slightly stale, over-salted tortilla chips and a ladle full of orange cheese that has been exposed for an indeterminate amount of time and thus has a skin on top.  That is what I’m talking about. 

Preying upon his weakness for movie popcorn and the fact that he was high, I convinced Brian that we should go to the movies.  It would enable us to get out of the disgusting apartment, kill some time, and eat gross food.  The Sunshine was only right around the corner from us anyway, and it might be fun to trudge in the snow over there to take in a flick.  Dreaming of fake liquid butter and processed cheese goo, off we went (but not before smoking a little bit more).

The snow was not as scary as we thought and we quite enjoyed the walk.  After arriving, we had no particular movie that we wanted to see, and the Sunshine is an artsy-fartsy theater, not exactly showing "Terminator 2" or even "Blade 3."  After checking out our options, we chose a movie called "The Barbarian Invasions," mostly because it was playing shortly, but also because it had a cool title.  If I had to put money on it, I’d bet I’d see at least one sword in a movie with that title.

Imagine our surprise then when Brian and I sat in the empty theater, nachos, pop corn and sodas in tow, to learn that the movie was in French (with subtitles).  Not only that, but there were no barbarians in the movie.  No warriors of any sort, even.  Just a bunch of French-Canadian people.  I mean, fuck.  

Despite the absence of swords and words in English, something magical happened: Brian and I got totally into the movie.  Maybe it was the food or the weather or the pot (it was definitely the pot, which, again, was dope), but we were enraptured by this story of a man dying of cancer trying to make peace with his son, ex-wife, old lovers and friends.  It was an incredibly stirring movie – with an intense and heart-wrenching ending that you can probably figure out (hint: they didn’t discover the cure for cancer) – and when the lights came on in the theater, Brian and I sat there motionless, overwhelmed with emotion (did I mention we were high?).  Eventually, we got up to leave and the first words Brian said were, "Man, my allergies are killing me – this place is really dusty."  Emotions.  Everywhere.  Ceiling.  Floors.  Walls.  Emotions.Brian and I didn’t speak again about the movie or that afternoon until about a year later, when I abruptly said, "Dude, do you remember when we got high on the snow day and saw that French movie and it was more emotion than either of us ever felt in our lives?"  Enough time had passed for us to be able to talk and laugh about that afternoon, but what I said was true.  We were genuinely moved by the movie.  Intense.  Emotion.  All over the place.  Wow.  I had never been moved like that before, and have not since.

*******

On this past Saturday, I woke up with a vicious hangover, thanks to several shots of warm $2 whiskey the night before.  I haven’t been sleeping much either; every few weeks I’ll go through this process, a sort of slow but light insomnia, during which I will wake up at 5:30am on work days (usually wake up at 8am) and 9am or 10am on the weekends (not exactly "late", but keep in mind I go to bed around 5am and rise at noon at the earliest).  On this morning I was out of bed at 10am, in the shower, trying to fight this hangover.

My buddies Bill and Joe, the latter whose best man I’ll be in seven weeks, were visiting from Boston.  I needed to pull it together because I knew they’d want to go out and wouldn’t take my hangover as an excuse.  Though I couldn’t give an F about BC sports, Bill and Joe sure do, and they were determined to hit up a bar to watch the BC game, which tipped off at 1:30pm.  It was going to be a long, long day. 

Off to the bar we went, and though the first one was rough, the beers tasted good.  I also made my customary bet against BC, taking UNC +11, and BC rewarded me by playing some of the most indifferent college basketball I’ve seen in a long time and I won the bet.  The beers tasted better.

All told, we sat at the bar for seven hours.  Me, Bill, Joe, Don Fiedler of Slack Lalane, and later buddies Brian, Jeremy, and Josh – just a group of guys getting drunk and talking sports, something I look forward to doing for 72 straight hours when I go to Boston this Thursday night for a long weekend.   

Of course I was drunk, but I was feeling pretty good.  I think that since I drank so late the night before and slept so little, I never really sobered up.  Add to that the winning bet and the laughter and good times and I was feeling it, baby, and having a ball.  All this a far cry from last week, which was one of the longest and most difficult work weeks of my life.  I needed a day to relax.

Just after eight, after sharing only chicken fingers between us, we decided it might be wise to get something to eat.  At this point, we split; Bill, Joe, Don and Josh went to get burgers in Brooklyn, while Brian, Jeremy and I went straight for cheesesteaks in the West Village.  I told my Brooklyn-bound friends that I’d join them later in the evening, after I went home for a spell to eat my cheesesteak and freshen up. 

Jeremy realized he had a show to go to and abruptly split, but Brian and I went back to my place to eat, have some beers, and smoke a little grass (which I had to go all the way out fucking Greenpoint to pick up last weekend – I miss Cartoon).  As per our usual, we put on VH1 Classic while all this was going on.  And then it came on.

Behind the Music: Pantera.

Well.

Though I know and enjoy a few of their songs, I would not call myself a Pantera fan.  I know they’re serious fucking metal.  I know that Dimebag Darrell was on the cover of "Guitar World" magazine at least every other month during my prime playing days in the 90’s.  And I know that Dimebag was murdered on stage during a show.

But though I had seen countless episodes of "Behind the Music" and I knew they followed the same basic formula, I was not prepared – emotionally, mentally, physically, or criminally - for the episode about Pantera.

And even though I knew how it would end, it was only a matter of time before the wheels started coming off in my living room.  Because I had tivo’ed the show, we were able to skip the commercials and keep the roller coaster of emotions going full bore: the love between Darrell and his brother and drummer Vinnie Paul, the introduction of singer Phil Anselmo into the band, the wild parties with hard rock icons, and the inevitable fall of the band because Phil’s problems.  Brian and I sat there drinking Chinese beer, mesmerized, drawn in, and morbidly waiting, almost salivating, to hear about Dime’s murder.

Sure enough, ample time is given to the events of December 8, 2004, which were explained not only by Dime’s friends who were there, but in video footage taken during the evening.  On that night, Dimebag and his brother were playing in Columbus, Ohio with their new band Damageplan.  Ten seconds into the first song, a former Marine named Nathan Gale calmly walked on stage with his pistol drawn and shot five rounds into Dimebag’s head.  In the hysteria that followed, three others were also killed – a club employee, a club bouncer, and a fan, picked off as they rushed to help Dimebag.  Roadie Kat Brooks was shot three times and held hostage by Gale, until a police officer entering through the back shot Gale in the head and ended the nightmare.  Though the police responded to the club in three minutes, Dimebag was dead. 

Well.

Years of excessive cigarette smoking have permanently dried up Brian’s tear ducts, and as part of a bet I lost with God in 1995, I can only cry while having sex.  Had this not been the case ("Had these not been the cases?"), Brian and I surely would have turned my apartment into a river, a river of tears and Chinese beer.  Like "The Barbarian Invasions" all those years before, he and I sat motionless as the show ended with Dime’s dad crying, saying in his Texan accent what a good boy Darrell was, and embattled drug-addicted singer Phil Anselmo saying that he needs Dime’s brother and Pantera drummer Vinnie Paul in his life right now, even though the two not have spoken in years.  "I just need him right now."

Emotions.  Everywhere.  Ceiling.  Floors.  Walls.  Emotions.

The show ended and we sat a while longer without saying anything.  Finally, I stood up and said "I need a break" and went into my spare bedroom/shitty office/den of sin and looked out the window to the street below, watching the tourists dining in Little Italy.  I contemplated calling it night – I had already been drinking for ten hours by that point, and though my friends were visiting me, they were at an unknown location in Brooklyn and hadn’t answered my texts or phone calls in hours.  Maybe taking it easy after such a wide emotional ride would be the best thing.  And I was pretty sure that I could not physically fit any more beer into my body.

But as I sipped my Tsingtao and looked out the window at all the tourists and Long Islanders/New Jerseyites below, I thought to myself, "God, I hate them."  And then I thought, "No – I can’t stay in tonight.  If he were here, Dime would tell me to stop being a pussy, pound the beer I was drinking, and then go get laid, get in a fight, or both."  Convinced that this was true and my fate, I stormed out of the spare bedroom and into the living room, where I found Brian standing up and dancing with the bowl in his hand, Black Sabbath’s "Supernaut" blasting out of my iPod speakers.  Brian handed the bowl to me and said, "Dude, it’s what he would have wanted."

I smoked some more and then we went out, met my friends and stayed out until 4am (well, 5am, if you count daylight savings time). 

I did not get laid (though some hot Asian chick said I was "endearing").

I did not get in a fight (though Brian fell off a bar stool).

But we fucking partied it up.

I would like to dedicate my performance on Saturday, March 10, to the memory of Darrell Lance Abbott.  May you rest in peace and rock in heaven, you glorious son of a bitch. 

So the post I intended to put up on Friday is now up under Friday’s date.  It’s old news now, but it’s long, so I put it up anyway.  Also, we’re still experiencing technical difficulties and I can’t hyperlink with much success, but we’re working on that. 

(And really, I’m sorry.  I have no patience for computers and am very close to hurting something or someone, probably myself.  At least you know that I’m suffering for my art.  Thank you.)

MAJOR tech issues over the past few days (and weekend).  Very upsetting.  We’re working on it. 

Long story short, I finally got the Mac, which I will discuss in greater detail later.  However, the new Mac and the blog are not getting along; it’s almost like I’ve remarried and my child hates my new wife and interrupts every time we have sex and says things at dinner like, "You know, my old Mommy never had problems creating hyperlinks or saving fucking drafts" (my child would surely curse like a sailor, if he/she has the power of speech, which is only 50/50, considering how many jokes I’ve made about the disabled and how sorry my sperm is).  However, what my child doesn’t understand is that his new Mommy is sexier, slimmer, faster, and, most importantly, black.  And, of course, I love her.

[Anyway, we're going to make this work.  I promise.  Just hold tight.] 

Tomorrow is one of the worst days of the year in the NYC area: the annual Hoboken St. Patty’s Day Parade.

It’s not that I dislike St. Patty’s Day.  I’m Irish-American and am proud of that.  Nor do I oppose parades and drinking with assholes to celebrate the holiday, since every year I head up to Boston for the Southie St. Patty’s Day parade (I’ll be up there in two weeks).  But the Hoboken parade…I mean, ugh.
 
I do admit that, just as I am biased towards Italian-Americans, white women who hook up with black guys, people who love cats, and poors, I’m generally down on people who live in Hoboken.  There are two types of people who live there: the "striped shirt-roofie toting-fuck you in the ass on the first date-banker" variety or those who are too poor or uncool to live in NYC.  But they are united by one common bond that is stronger than the GHB they employ either on their victims or themselves: they are from New Fucking Jersey. 
 
What happens when you put a bunch of drunk Jersey assholes in a one square mile town to celebrate a holiday dedicated to drinking?  You get beat up, your girlfriend gets groped, and you listen to all manner of inane conversations with topics ranging from, "I really think Eli’s gonna pull it together next year" to "I’m up for Executive VP, but Wealth Management isn’t where I want to focus" to "That girl’s set-up is tight – I wonder how well she can take a punch?" 
 
Though I have been to the Hoboken Parade in the past, I have not gone (read: been dragged) for the past few years.  Of course, my old roommate Brian, born and bred in NJ, is trying to get me to go this year.  As much as I enjoy hanging out with Brian and knowing that going to this parade would mean watching him fall asleep on his feet from 6pm until 2am, there is still no way that I can stomach that parade again.  I know I’m going to get a bunch of emails from Hoboken people saying I’m a pussy and that the parade is fun and maybe even pointing out that I (briefly, fleetingly) thought of moving there over the summer, but I can’t do it.  I’m sorry to you, Hobokeners, and I’m sorry to you, Brian.  It’s just too much…Jersey. 
 
But to all who are going to the parade, have a good time.  If you are a woman, I would bring mace and possibly a small firearm.  If you are a dude, prepare to fight someone who’ll yell, "Do you know where I’m from?  I’m from Nutley, mother fucker!  That’s how I roll!" 

And Happy St. Patrick’s Day. 
 
******************
 
In an order to make this blog more popular, I’ve decided to report on the celebrities that I see on the street (I heard somewhere that people like hearing about celebrities in everyday situations).  In the past two or three weeks, I’ve seen:
 
- Courtney Love, strolling along Prince Street, a few blocks north of my apartment.  I don’t mean to be mean, but Courtney’s seen better days, methinks.  After I realized it was her, the first thought that came to my mind was, "Man – I don’t think I’d fuck her."  And then I thought, "Who am I kidding?  I fucked the sand four times when I was down the shore last weekend!"  
 
- Winona Ryder, walking along Spring Street, also a few blocks north of my apartment.  She was pulling a piece of luggage, which struck me as weird, because she’s Winona Ryder.  I would have offered to help her, but I had my hands full of groceries.  Also, a milkshake.  Yes, I was drinking a milkshake in the middle of February.  Whatever. 

Unlike Courtney Love, Winona looked pretty f’ing hot.  I always kinda dug her.  I bet she’s a pretty good lay, solidly in B+ territory.  And yes, I will begin masturbating in about four minutes. 
 
- Speaking of masturbating, I saw Jude Law, walking north on Thompson Street, I think between Houston and Bleecker (but I could be wrong about that and about Thompson Street, but somewhere in the vicinity).  All I can say is: HOLY CRAP.  You know the old saying, "I’m not gay, but I’d fuck Elvis?"  I think I can personalize that to, "I would be gay to fuck Jude Law.  Holy shit I want to kiss his mouth." 
 
I had a good look at him too, because it was just the two of us walking in opposite directions toward each other on the otherwise empty street.  My old roommate Brian, who works for a celebrity news show and has met/interviewed many celebrities, told me once that he literally ran into Leonardo DiCaprio coming out a hotel and he (Brian) was caught off-guard.  Off Brian’s surprised "Oh – I’m sorry," Leo gave Brian a look, not in a dickhead way, but in a way that said, "I’m Leonardo DiCaprio and I know you want to be me.  I don’t blame you; I absolutely CRUSH P-SSY" (don’t like writing the p-word in that context).  Brian was taken aback.
 
This is the kind of look that Jude Law gave me.  I knew it was him and he knew I recognized him, so he looked at me like, "Hey there, fat chops.  You know what I’m going to be doing when you’re home straddling the toilet and trimming your balls later?  Fucking two beautiful women in a $35,000 a month apartment.  I’m not bragging, but I thought you’d like to know."
 
Indeed, I would like to know.  Indeed I would. 
 
(And if I didn’t see Jude Law but rather some really hot gay guy, please just don’t tell my dad I wrote all this.  If it was for someone famous, he might understand.  Otherwise, it would kill him.  Thank you.)  

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Two general responses to the "Drink Until You Shit" post on Tuesday.
 
- You do not have to buy the shirts now.  You can buy them later.  I hope to sell some on here, but I wanted to show you the (proposed but not yet final) design. 
 
- What I was trying to say in that post was: The 9th Annual Flood/Mulgrew Quasi-Celebrity "Drink Until You Shit" Tour will be held in North Wildwood, New Jersey on Saturday, July 14, 2007 (exact time and locations to be determined).  Anyone can come.  More details will follow as they become available.  I just wanted to give you a little teaser for now and make sure you have ample time to plan accordingly. 
 
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I don’t usually recommend TV shows, but you guys have got to check out BBC Crown Jewels on VH1 Classic.  It’s a tremendous show that features never before seen in the US performances by artists of the 70’s.  I’ve only seen two episodes so far, and each has made me a better person.  The first show featured The Faces and kicked fucking ass.  The highlight was a touching rendition of Paul McCartney’s "Maybe I’m Amazed" by both Sir Rod Stewart and bass player/singer Ronnie Lane, two guys who totally fucked each other after the show.  That was perhaps the best part of the concert – knowing that the whole band had some sort of giant, British, coke-fueled orgy immediately after leaving the stage.  It didn’t take a pervert to pick up on the sexual energy on that stage.
 
I also saw the Hall & Oates BBCCJ (look how cool I am, using acronyms), which was, believe it or not, a little disappointing.  It was young Hall & Oates, as the show was from about 1976, before any of their mega-hits of the 80’s.  Also, unlike The Faces, it was plainly clear – and strangely disappointing – that Daryl Hall and John Oates did NOT fuck each other after the show.  Why I was so devastated by this, I don’t know. 
 
[Great tidbit from Hall & Oates Wikipedia entry: "Daryl Hall (born Hohl) first met John Oates at the Adelphi Ballroom in Philadelphia in 1967 while attending Temple University.  Both were heading their own musical groups at the time—the Temptones (Hall) and the Masters (Oates).  They were there for a band competition when gunfire rang out between two rival gangs, and in trying to escape, they ran to the same service elevator.  Because of their similar musical tastes, they quickly became acquainted."  God, I miss Philly.]
 
Still, the Hall & Oates BBCCJ was highly entertaining and I recommend the show.  Watch it over a PBR while getting appropriately drunk enough to leave your apartment and face the world.  At least, that’s what I do.
 
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Book pick
 
Memoirs by Pablo Neruda 
I do not read poetry with any sort of analytical eye, in part because I’m not smart enough to do so, but also because I believe that over-analysis destroys what makes poetry good; it should be read, it should make you think, and it should please you – whether it’s written in iambic pentameter or ballad meter should not matter.  Instead, I read poetry with the maudlin sentimentality of one whose parents went through a messy divorce in his formative years and who believes that Johnny Gill’s "My My My" just may be the greatest love song of all time. 
 
But I like the poetry of Pablo Neruda.  I realize this is like saying "I like pizza", as Neruda has been called the "most read poet in history" (Jason Mulgrew, February 28, 2007).  But all of Neruda’s talk of lust and grain and breasts and wheat and skin just really gets me going. 

However, I did not realize how much more there was to Neruda than some Chilean dude who wrote about breasts and wheat.  Turns out Neruda was a leading activist and politician in his native Chile and the world over.  Well I’ll be damned.

This, and not his love poems, makes up the bulk of the subject matter in Neruda’s autobiography.  And while I could not care less about activism – in any way, shape or form – what makes this book so enjoyable and fascinating is that Neruda’s style does not change whether he is writing about the beauty of Chile or the "positives" of Communism (and later Socialism); his words are at times wistful, at other times full of condemnation, but always passionate.  And if I know anything, it’s that chicks dig passion.  So read it. 

(And if you’re not interested in the content, just keep the book on your bookshelf.  A wise man once told me that a surefire way to get laid is to have some Neruda books lying around.  If you have his autobiography, well, you’d better prepare for some kinky shit.)

(Or so I’ve heard.  Usually the women I bring back to my apartment are too busy struggling with the restraints to notice my bookshelf, which is a shame, because it’s truly impressive.) 
 
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Six Songs
 
"Spread Your Love"  Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
One of your wrote in a few months ago and recommended a song (I can’t remember which) for my work-out mix, saying something like, "When I was on the treadmill at the gym and this song came on, I actually picked up the treadmill and started running around the gym carrying it above my head."  I laughed, but I had never felt that way about a particular song.  That is, until this song came on this week while I was running on the treadmill.  I then got off, tried to lift the treadmill, and was immediately tackled by the muscle-bound homosexual trainers that crawl all over my NYSC like cockroaches.  But at least I tried.
 
Also, the song is so…dirty.  I mean, this not only sexually ("Spread your love") but also hygienically ("like a fever").  Like saying, "Let’s fuck and get cholera."  If that’s not romance, I don’t know what is. 
 
"TKO"  Le Tigre
I’ll be damned if I don’t hate this bad.  And I hate this song.  I don’t even know why I’m recommending it, but I think it has song to do with it (the song) making me want to punch people in the fucking face (it is called "TKO" after all).

(God, I really hate this band.  Seriously, don’t you just want to punch someone – preferably a hipster – right in the mouth while listening to it?)

"Victoria"  The Kinks
I had to search the archives on this one and can not believe that in three years of doing this I have not recommended this song.  I’m shocked.  This song is easily one of my twenty favorite songs of all time, and is, without a doubt, the opening song for whatever movie I write (even though the movie won’t be about Queen Victoria – I don’t think).  If this doesn’t get your head bobbing no matter what mood you’re in – especially the last verse that starts "Canada/To India" you really need to talk to a therapist.  Terrific song to walk, drive, and just plain rock out to.

(I’m listening to this at my desk right now and practically dancing.  If I had any shame, I might be embarrassed.  But I don’t care – it’s Friday and I’m getting drunk tonight.  God bless America.)

(Also, I’ve linked to the live version, which is far, far inferior to the studio version.  But the latter is not available on iTunes.  Get the studio version if you can.)
 
"Level"  The Raconteurs
Sexual.  Dark.  Chocolatey.  For real.

"Custard Pie"  Led Zeppelin
Sexual again, though more light than dark.  And I think "custard pie" is a metaphor for a woman’s sexy region, which is a pretty awesome metaphor if I do say so myself.  Although I could do without the word "cut" in the last verse:

Your custard pie, yeah, sweet and nice
When you cut it, mama, save me a slice
Your custard pie, I declare, it’s sweet and nice
I like your custard pie
When you cut it, mama… mama, please save me a slice.

Yeah, "cut" is a little harsh there.  I mean, "serve" wouldn’t have been fine?  Or even "give"?  C’mon, guys.     

"Crossroads"  Cream
I think this is the only song on my iPod that I have never skipped when it’s come on shuffle.  The bass playing on this song is so good, I don’t even know what to say.  Jack Bruce goes absolutely fucking insane-o.  There is nothing I wouldn’t give to be able to play like that.

(You listening, Devil?  I know I don’t have much to offer, but there have to be some things you’re interested in.  I’m really good at fantasy sports, for instance, and though I only did it once, everybody said I was really great at that bukkake party.  Just throwing it out there.)
 
[Have a good weekend.]