Articles Archive for August 2007
QB: Carson Palmer (2)
QB: Brett Favre (8)
RB: Brian Westbrook (1)
RB: Edgerrin James (3)
WR: Marvin Harrison (4)
WR: Donald Driver (6)
WR: Terry Glenn (12)
RB/WR: Deuce McAllister (5)
TE: LJ Smith (15)
K: The Pats kicker with the Polish name (17)
DEF: Philly (16)
B: Jerious Norwood (7)
B: Ladell Betts (9)
B: Fred Taylor (10)
B: Chester Taylor (11)
B: Anthony Gonzalez (13)
B: Daunte Culpepper (14)
When my pick came in the first round, I had the choice between Rudi Johnson and Brian Westbrook. Normally, I don’t like to double up on teammates, but that was moot here, since both the Eagles and the Bengals have a bye on Week 5. I went with Westbrook, even with his health concerns, because I like his potential as a receiver as well as running back. And there’s another reason. Typically, I’m a big believer in handcuffing, which is drafting your stud RB’s backup. In this case, the advantage of drafting Westbrook over Johnson is that I watch every single Eagles game, so if Westbrook gets hurt, I’ll see it right away. This is a positive in that I have internet access on me at all times via my blackberry. So if Westbrook gets hurt mid-game and I’m at a bar, I’ll be able to pick up his backup right away. This is exactly what happened last year, when I was sitting in a bar in Boston watching the Eagles play the Titans when I saw my star QB Donovan McNabb go down. I immediately whipped out my blackberry, picked up Jeff Garcia, and wound up finishing second in the league, thanks to Garcia’s fine performance. By going with Westbrook and knowing I’ll know as soon as he gets hurt – I don’t watch Bengals games and would learn of an injury to Rudi Johnson well after it happened - I eliminated the need to draft his backup, thereby effectively giving myself an extra pick in the draft. And yes, ladies, I am single. Swear to god. Shocking, I know.
(By the way, this only works if someone doesn’t draft your RB’s backup later in the draft. Fortunately, none in my league did, though they will undoubtedly do so now that I’ve written this. Do you see what I do for you people?)
I like the team. QBs are important in ten team league that starts two QBs, so I like having Palmer as the cornerstone and Favre’s not a bad second – maybe he’ll have a little magic in his "final" season. No regrets about grabbing Daunte – two years ago, the guy had 5000 total yards and over 40 total touchdowns, so sure, I’ll take a flyer on him in the 14th round.
Obviously I have lots of depth at running back, though I’m not too thrilled with my other two starters. I’m not crazy about Edge, but he was the best available (20 of the first 29 picks were RBs; I got him at 30), as was Deuce. I grabbed the rest of the guys late because when in doubt, always go with a RB (one interesting tidbit: Chestor Taylor is still the starter in Minnesota and I got him in the 11th, whereas Adrian Peterson, his rookie backup, went in the 5th). Of the 21 RBs that had over 1000 yards rushing in 2006, six – almost a third - are on my team. Not bad for a ten team league.
This is arguably the most talented group of WRs I’ve ever had, as I usually never waste high picks on them. But when Harrison fell to me, and then Driver (he ain’t that hurt), and Glenn lasted until the 12th (!), I had to take them. The best thing I can say about my TE, kicker and defense is that I’m happy with all of them and I got them in the last three rounds of the draft. Not too shabby.
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Two things are changing my life. The first is safe for work. The second is completely not safe for work.
The first: These ecards. I spent about two hours of my afternoon yesterday looking through and sending these to friends. I think that this is my favorite, but this is also pretty solid, as well as this one. This one has a special place in my heart, since I think I actually uttered (or rather, growled) these words last Thanksgiving.
The second (totally not safe for work): Redtube.com is the porn version of youtube. Yes, you read that right. And having recently learned that I’ve downloaded just about every last decent clip of porn from the internet to my computer, this site is rocking my world. Needless to say, it has not been a productive week for Uncle Jason. Enjoy responsibly (if possible).
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Six Songs
"Sweet Virginia" The Rolling Stones
I’m recommending this song for four reasons:
1) I am on a quest to recommend to you every song off Exile On Main Street – I think this is the fourth or fifth song I’ve recommended from the album. Which means it’s a very good album. Which means you should probably splurge and pick it up.
2) It features a lovely sing-a-long type chorus that features the line, "Got to scrape that shit right off your shoes." Any time you can work feces into a song and the name of your band is not Ween, well, I’m buying.
(Not that I have anything against Ween. Great band.)
3) You can never go wrong with a saxophone solo, unless it involves that god awful E Street Band.
4) When I hear it, it reminds me that I’m more than likely never going to have sex with a Southern girl. This makes me sad on so many levels.
"Rocks Off" The Rolling Stones
Another off EOMS, just because when Mick sings, "I was making love last night/To a dancer friend of mine," I believe him. I truly, truly believe him.
The Fox NFL Theme
Men, I dare you to put this on your workout playlist. If you do, you will hurt yourself or someone around you. God, I can’t wait for the NFL season to start.
"Thirteen" Wilco
A lovely little love song about young love. Aspiring guitarist/sensitive douchebags: I bet if you played and sang this song for a girl, she’d would probably make out with you – and it sounds pretty easy to play. Otherwise, it makes me feel all warm and happy and pure, which I have not felt for a very long time. God, I love love.
"One Man Guy" Rufus Wainwright
As the #2 ranked gay man in the world, one would think that from the title this is a song about Rufus and his monogamous relationship with his lover. But, friends, if you thought that, you’d be wrong – it’s actually about Rufus being self-absorbed. So ha! I bet I just blew your f’ing mind, didn’t I?
"Mind Games" John Lennon
I’ve written about this song, but every time I hear it it gives me such fond memories that it’s worth mentioning again. In senior year of college, I lived with 5 other guys in a dorm on BC’s campus. 3.5 of us, including me, had a girlfriend or girlfriend-type person in our life that year (mine was the latter). At least once a week, we’d be sitting around the common room having beers and watching a game and invariably one of our cordless phones would ring (this was before cell phones, mind you), and it would be that respective guy’s girlfriend-type person. The conversation would then go:
Guy: "Hello. Oh hey babe, how you doing?"
[Listens for four seconds]
Guy: "No, you know I didn’t mean it like that."
[Listens for seven seconds, rubs forehead]
Guy: "That’s not even exactly what I said. I -"
[Listening for five seconds, sighs]
Guy: "I know, I know – it’s not that it doesn’t matter…"
[Gets up and leaves common room to take rest of phone call in bedroom]
Anywhere from two to forty minutes later, the rest of the roommates, still sitting in the common room, would hear this song blast from their other roommate’s bedroom. This would be the sign that a) the conversation with the girlfriend-type person was over; b) it was not a particularly pleasant conversation, due to said girlfriend-type person’s craziness. The roommate would then come out of his bedroom, song still planning, and tell the other roommates exactly how "women be shoppin’." God, I miss those days.
[Off to Boston for the long weekend, drinking on the train on the way up. Wish me luck and have a good weekend.]
When I started that diet, I was a voluptuous 232.5 pounds. I had been around that weight for about, oh, 12 years (as I junior in high school, I ran for student council under the slogan "239 pounds of Vice President" – and I won). When I first got on the treadmill at the gym, I could run just about a tenth of a mile before turning blue and popping a Bayer to help ease my minor heart attack; by the end of the diet, I was running three miles every day. I felt lighter, sexier, and my penis, God bless it, looked a lot bigger. All good things.
During the diet, I also significantly cut my calories. I tried to eat about 1500 calories a day, and subsisted on cereal, almonds, Healthy Choice/Lean Cuisines, and chicken or turkey sausages. I did not, however, cut my drinking. If I was going to diet, I was going to do it my way, and there was simply no way I could give up drinking. The only drinking-related thing I did give up (or tried to give up) was post-bar eating. This was difficult, because at the end of a night of drinking I love few things more than two slices of pizza and a chicken roll. To make it easier, I just got so drunk when I went out at night that it would be physically impossible for me to a) walk to the pizza place; b) exchange cash for the purchase of pizza. For the most part, it worked – although one time I did fall down a flight of stairs, which totally sucked. Especially for that Armenian guy, whose hand I was holding when I fell. I often wonder what happened to him.When all was said and done, at the end of the diet I was down to 199.5 pounds. I reached my lowest weight since puberty shortly thereafter, dropping to (I think) 196. At that point, flush with success and satisfaction, I put the scale and the gym bag away and went about my normal pre-diet life (read: hoagies, watching titties on the internet, more hoagies).
When I realized last night that I had missed the anniversary, I decided that I would weigh myself in the morning. With not a small amount of trepidation, I got on the scale. I closed my eyes, said a little prayer, thought about some boobies, and when I opened my eyes I saw…200.5. By some complete fucking miracle, I am only one pound heavier than I was when I ended my diet a year ago. I don’t really know what to say about this, because I have no idea how it happened.I know it’s not because of my intense post-diet gym routine. Since the diet ended, I’ve been following a ten week cycle at the gym, which goes something like:
- Week One: Three gym visits, 45 minutes running/walking each time- Week Two: Two gym visits, 35 minutes running/walking/thinking, "This sucks much worse than I remember" each time
- Week Three: One gym visit per week, 20 minutes hanging out in locker room, hissing and making cat noises at men as they change- Week Four Through Week Ten: Off
And I know it’s not because of my stricter eating habits since my diet ended. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little more conscious about what I eat, but I’m not exactly counting calories, either. To wit, while in LA my dinner for three consecutive nights was an In-and-Out double-double animal style, fries and vanilla shake. I would have gone for a fourth straight night, but, long story short, the In-and-Out on Gayley in Westwood will not allow public access to its restroom any longer. Here in NYC, every week, usually on Sunday, I get takeout from Sea Thai that includes the tup-tim fritters (seven fried balls of goodness) and the largest and most delicious bowl of chicken pad thai in Manhattan, always washing that down with a whole pint of ice cream (Oatmeal Cookie Chunk, Cookies and Cream, Cherry Vanilla, or Banana Split usually). I have a "regular" at my deli near work, a breakfast sandwich featuring sausage, double egg and cheese on a plain untoasted bagel. And of course, in the past year I’ve eaten three babies and a half-dog, half-man. So I haven’t been perfect.(This weekend I’m heading up to Boston to, among other things, tailgate at a BC football game, and I’m actually frightened for my friend Danielle’s dip. We may need to have a police officer on hand to make sure things stay under control.)
So it’s not the gym regime, nor is it because of my eating habits. And I don’t throw up after I eat (not that often, at least), I haven’t gotten any stomach stapling or other procedure to keep weight off, and I am not addicted to cocaine, amphetamines or any diet pills (kinda). However, I do have a few ideas as to why I’ve kept the weight off:1) Something inside of me is alive and it’s eating all of my food. Remember, I’ve traveled to numerous exotic and unsanitary places in my life - hell, I grew up in Philly, spent every summer at the Jersey shore, and live in an apartment with a toilet that explodes once every two months - and have had a number of questionable sexual encounters, mostly involving non-native English speakers (if they were English speakers at all). I easily could have picked up some parasite along the way that’s now nesting in my colon, listening to Van Halen, smoking cigarettes and being surly.
(Actually, that’s the perfect description of my old roommate Brian.)This would also explain all of my poo problems, which, let’s be honest, are getting downright terrifying. One of my last poos looked like a shillelagh. I felt like I was trying to reel in a marlin during that one: lot of rocking, lot of sweating, lots of boats around.
(Note: actual picture of my poo)2) God is setting me up a major fall. For the most part, things have been extremely good for me for the last two or two and a half years, what with all the fame, fortune, and the never-ending stream of blowjobs. Keeping the weight off with no effort is just the latest good thing to add to that list. This means that any number of calamities will strike me in the next 10 to 14 days. The front-runner right now is a bizarre subway accident resulting in the loss of my genitals, but that’s followed closely by a bizarre ski lodge fire in which I do not lose my genitals, but instead they are badly damaged.
3) My scale is broken. Yeah, this is probably the right one.
Gentlemen and ladies, it’s one of the most wonderful times of the year – fantasy football drafting season.
Regular readers of this site know that I’m a bit obsessed with fantasy sports. I’m the commissioner of a league called Iron Sheik involving ten of my buddies. We’re now on our 7th year of playing together, and this football league represents our 23rd (we do baseball, football and basketball). And simply put, I am really good at fantasy sports. I’ve won four titles in the IS league with a fifth on the way (this year’s baseball) and have finished in the top three 10 times. So while I may not be an "expert", this advice is as good as any you’ll find, I think.
But enough small talk – let’s get to the good shit. First my general draft tips, then position-by-position breakdowns.
Draft Tips
1) Do your research. This may seem obvious, but if you wing it, you’ll lose. Sure, anyone with a fundamental knowledge of football can navigate through the first few rounds, but what happens in round 8 when you’re looking for a 3rd receiver and are deciding between Donte Stallworth and Mark Clayton?
At the very least, visit the fantasy sections of ESPN, Yahoo, and CBS Sportsline to get a general idea of two things: what statistics players put up last year and where players are being drafting. Yeah, odds are good that Peyton Manning will have around 30 TDs and he’s a high pick, but what about a guy like Phillip Rivers? Where’s he being drafted in relation to John Kitna or Vince Young?
Go into the draft with some stuff printed out with last year’s stats. That’ll give you a cheat sheet to look over during the draft. Additionally, I like to highlight certain guys I like, making notes on the side. Do whatever makes you comfortable, but you should have a little bit of paperwork to refer to during the draft and to keep you grounded.
2) Lie and manipulate. If you are in a league with friends, constantly engage them in conversations before the draft. Feel them out about their battle plans, who they like, etc and reciprocate with information that is entirely false. The important thing is to be sincere and seem honest. A good way to do this is by saying stuff like, "You know, I don’t even know if I should tell you this, but I think John Kitna is going to blow up this year" when you secretly think his shoulders going to detach from his body in Week 3.
Say you have the 6th pick in the first round, and your buddy has the 5th. You really, really want Frank Gore, but think your buddy at 5 is going to take him. The solution: talk up another player. "Dude, I love Addai. I love him in that Colts offense this year. But c’mon – don’t take him, dude. I’m calling dibbs on him." More than likely, your buddy at 5 will take Addai, in the hopes of screwing you over, and you’ll get Gore. Remember, the other owners in your league are just as soulless as you are, just much, much dumber. The point is, NEVER show your true hand. Flaunt your fake hand constantly.
3) Don’t panic, and start or stay off the waves. Countless mistakes are made during the draft because the manager was panicking. Don’t be like this. As your pick comes back to you, be sure to have at least two choices ready. This way, if the guy ahead of you takes the player you wanted, you don’t make a rash decision and end up taking a kicker in the 5th round.
A good deal of draft panic derives from position runs. This happens when a number of players of the same position are selected in a row, causing owners to think, "Holy crap! All the [QBs, WRs, TEs, etc] are going! I have to get one now!" The result is that they wind up with a not-as-good player, because they jumped on the wave too late.
My advice is to either stay off these or start them. I usually stay off rather than start them, just because it’s easier. But say you’re in the third round, and the guy a few picks before you takes Donovan McNabb. Then the next guy takes Marc Bulger. Then the next guy takes Vince Young or Matt Hasselbeck or someone. Then it’s on. You’ll see a flurry of managers selecting QBs that shouldn’t be selected. In this situation, I would back off, take a RB or star WR, and wait a few rounds before taking a serviceable QB (Kitna, Cutler, etc).
Runs or waves most often happen late in the draft when people pick kickers or defenses. I usually completely ignore these, preferring instead to take a third RB or another QB. Which brings us to…
4) Fuck tight ends, kickers, and defenses. Simply put, these don’t matter very much. There’s something to be said for having Antonio Gates or Tony Gonzalez, but if you don’t get them in round 4 or 5, forget it. In a 16 round draft, I won’t take these three positions until rounds 12-16. And even then I don’t put much thought into it. I’d rather pick up a different defense every week and draft a backup RB with starting potential than take the Pittsburgh defense in the 8th.
5) Know your enemy. When you’re picking, it’s important to know who the managers around you already have on their teams. For example, say you have the 8th pick in a 10 person league. It’s the 3rd round, and you’re really looking for a QB, but you see that a nice WR has fallen to you. Check to see who the 9th and 10th owners have. If they already have a QB, take the WR with your 3rd round choice and then get the QB on the wrap in the 4th round, following the logic that if the guys picking after you already have a QB, they’re not going to take another one. This knowledge is key.
6) Think "best available." I’m all for filling out your roster positions, but at the same time I adhere to the principle of "best available," meaning take the best available player, regardless of position. For example, say by the 3rd round I’ve drafted two quality RBs and a decent QB. In round 4, if I see another very good RB who I think has lasted too long, I will take him over a WR that I have less confidence in. Sure, it means that I have one RB too many, but it also means that my competitor won’t have this RB on his team. It’s a wise decision to draft best available because it means a) you’ll have trade bait and b) it’s offensive by being defensive.
7) Handcuff, handcuff, handcuff. Spend the last few rounds making sure you draft the backups of your marquee players. Players get hurt and their backups step up and often times play well (especially in the case of RBs and, to a less extent, QBs).
So there are your tips. Now onto the positions.
[Note: We will assume that this is a standard scoring league with ten teams playing head-to-head, the position break-down being: QB, RB, RB, WR, WR, WR, TE, WR/RB, K, DEF. "Sleepers" and "busts" mean that I think relative to where these players are being drafted, they will perform better or worse. If I say that Peyton Manning is a potential bust, I don't mean that I think he's going to throw for 6 TDs and 20 INTs. I mean that he ain't gonna perform like a #4 overall pick. Dig? Spaces between players indicate tiers.]
QUARTERBACK
1 Peyton Manning, Ind
2 Carson Palmer, Cin
3 Drew Brees, NO
4 Tom Brady, NE
5 Donovan McNabb, Phi
6 Marc Bulger, StL
7 Philip Rivers, SD
8 Matt Hasselbeck, Sea
9 Jon Kitna, Det
10 Vince Young, Ten
11 Jay Cutler, Den
12 Matt Leinart, Ari
13 Brett Favre, GB
14 Eli Manning, NYG
15 Ben Roethlisberger, Pit
16 Trent Green, Mia
17 J.P. Losman, Buf
18 Byron Leftwich, Jac
19 Steve McNair, Bal
20 Alex Smith, SF
Most leagues play one QB, so the position is almost an afterthought. According to Yahoo standard scoring, 10 of the top 20 point scorers last year were QBs (8 were RBs and 2 - Harrison and Owens – were WR). If you’re in a one QB league, you have the time to wait around for your top guy. If you’re in a two QB league, it might make sense to grab two top-flight QBs early, as the QB position – even more than the RB position – is the bread winner of the fantasy team. This year, I think it’s become clear that Peyton is the undisputed #1 fantasy QB, but there’s not much difference to me between Carson Palmer and Marc Bulger. I would strongly advise grabbing one of those top six guys, as there is quite a bit of a drop off after that.
Potential Sleepers: I am in love with Philip Rivers this year, and not just because he’s boyishly handsome. SD has a very good team again, and Rivers put up very nice numbers (a 92.0 rating) in his first year in the system and at just 25 years old. In deeper leagues, I like Byron Leftwich (he has something to prove), Trent Green (ditto), and Alex Smith (another young, developing QB).
Potential Busts: I’m not really sold on Matt Leinart (although he too is handsome, but more in a devilish than boyish way), and I think a lot of people are jocking John Kitna because he has Roy Williams, that white guy, and Calvin Johnson to throw to. I could be wrong, because I know both those guys will be throwing a lot this year, but I think they’re being drafted too high.
Guys Who Might Kill Me Because I Hate Them: Eli. God, I hate this whiny bitch, in no small part because I’m 70% sure I could beat him in a fight. Part of me thinks he could tank, but another part of me (the Eagles fan part) wouldn’t be surprised if he threw for 28 TDs, 4000 yards, and led the Giants to an 11-5 record. Still, I hate him.
RUNNING BACK
1 LaDainian Tomlinson, SD
2 Steven Jackson, StL
3 Larry Johnson, KC
4 Joseph Addai, Ind
5 Frank Gore, SF
6 Shaun Alexander, Sea
7 Rudi Johnson, Cin
8 Brian Westbrook, Phi
9 Willie Parker, Pit
10 Travis Henry, Den
11 Laurence Maroney, NE
12 Reggie Bush, NO
13 Maurice Jones-Drew, Jac
14 Ronnie Brown, Mia
15 Willis McGahee, Bal
16 Clinton Portis, Was
17 Deuce McAllister, NO
18 Cedric Benson, Chi
19 Thomas Jones, NYJ
20 Edgerrin James, Pho
21 Brandon Jacobs, NYG
22 Marshawn Lynch, Buf
23 Cadillac Williams, TB
24 Marion Barber, Dal
25 Ahman Green, Hou
26 Jamal Lewis, Cle
27 Jerious Norwood, Atl
28 Chester Taylor, Min
29 Fred Taylor, Jac
30 DeAngelo Willams, Car
31 Brandon Jackson, GB
The situations in Atlanta, Dallas, Minnesota and Carolina (and to a lesser extent Washington and Jacksonville and possibly even with the Giants) are a mess for fantasy owners. What I’m going to target this year are guys who are clearly their team’s starter AND goal line back (I rate Reggie Bush at 12 because I expect him to improve on his rookie season, like his pass catching abilities, and the NO offense is so good it’s an exception to this rule). Ideally, you’re looking for two of the top 16 guys on this list, but I think there are some bargains to be had later on.
Potential Sleepers: Travis Henry (a power runner who should succeed in Denver’s system and be around in the early second round), Willis McGahee (wasn’t he the #4 overall pick two years ago), Clinton Portis (ditto, but with some health issues), Marshawn Lynch (just a good feeling about him), Cadillac Williams (he’s only 25 and has a semi-decent QB this year), Jerious Norwood (much more big play potential than aging, little Dunn) and Lamont Jordan (why not?).
Potential Busts: A lot of people are all over Larry Johnson because of his boatload of carries and long holdout, and I think these concerns are valid. I’m a little concerned about Maroney’s health issues and his first year as a full time back, and so will probably stay away from him in most leagues. I also think that the Bears are going to be a bad football team this year and Cedric Benson is not going to help with that.
Guys Who Might Kill Me Because I Hate Them: None really stick out, although for some reason I’m very anti-Willie Parker and I have no idea why. I also hate Ahman Green for destroying several teams of mine a few years ago and wouldn’t be suprised if he has a very nice season.
WIDE RECEIVER
1 Steve Smith, Car
2 Marvin Harrison, Ind
3 Chad Johnson, Cin
4 Torry Holt, StL
5 Terrell Owens, Dal
6 Reggie Wayne, Ind
7 Larry Fitzgerald, Ari
8 Roy Williams, Det
9 Anquan Boldin, Ari
10 Lee Evans, Buf
11 T.J. Houshmandzadeh, Cin
12 Javon Walker, Den
13 Andre Johnson, Hou
14 Donald Driver, GB
15 Randy Moss, NE
16 Marques Colston, NO
17 Chris Chambers, Mia
18 Hines Ward, Pit
19 Plaxico Burress, NYG
20 Santana Moss, Was
21 Laverneus Coles, NYJ
22 Darrell Jackson, SF
23 Terry Glenn, Dal
24 Reggie Brown, Phi
25 Deion Branch, Sea
26 Joey Galloway, TB
27 Braylon Edwards, Cle
28 Mark Clayton, Bal
29 Jerricho Cotchery, NYJ
30 Vincent Jackson, SD
31 Kevin Curtis, Phi
Ah, the wide receiver position, always year in and year out a crap shoot. You’ve got the guys you know are gonna be good (#1-6) but then a bunch of guys who have very little consistency and could give you 80 catches for 1100 yards and 12 TDs, or score four times. I hate this position. Draft your two or three RBs first, but then try to get three of the top 21 listed above.
Potential Sleepers: I like Andre Johnson in Houston with Schaub as his new QB and Kevin Walter, who I’ve been hearing good things about, starting next to him. I like Chris Chambers, though I feel like I say this every year, but perhaps this is finally the year he rises to the top with Trent Green throwing to him. I like Anthony Gonzalez as the slot receiver in Indy. I don’t think he’s nailed down that role but I think he could, and that means he could be good for 6 or so TDs, which wouldn’t be bad for your fourth receiver. I like Joey Galloway, too.
Potential Busts: I’m down on the Cardinals receivers, as I’m down on their QB. I don’t think Colston’s numbers will be as gaudy and there’s a great chance he gets drafted too high in your league, as I still have that "7th round pick out of Hofstra!" angle burned into my brain.
Guys Who Might Kill Me Because I Hate Them: Man, I know the temptation with Moss is there, but I’m just not feeling it. I still have trouble envisioning Moss as a success on this New England team. I think he’ll play well enough, but we’re talking 900 yards, 6 TDs well. I know I may eat these words, but that’s how I’m feeling right now. Also, I obviously hate TO. Like, a whole lot.
TIGHT END
1 Antonio Gates, SD
2 Tony Gonzalez, KC
3 Todd Heap, Bal
4 Jeremy Shockey, NYG
5 Alge Crumpler, Atl
6 Chris Cooley, Was
7 Kellen Winslow, Cle
8 Vernon Davis, SF
9 Jason Witten, Dal
10 L.J. Smith, Phi
11 Ben Watson, NE
12 Heath Miller, Pit
13 Owen Daniels, Hou
14 Ben Troupe, Ten
15 Daniel Graham, Den
After Gates, there is some decent depth – a guy like Jason Whitten, who could produce six TDs fairly easily, could be available in round 12 or so. My philosophy on TE stays the same: if I can’t get Gates, I’ll take one late.
Potential Sleepers: LJ Smith is a bit hurt right now and many are down on him, meaning he could slip farther than he should. I would happily take a flyer on Vernon Davis based on his potential. When is Ben Watson going to have his 10 TD season?
Potential Busts: It’s hard to call any of these guys busts, because they’re generally low performing anyway. If anything, I’d stay away from Tony Gonzalez, just because he’s another year older and KC scares me with all their question marks on offense.
Guys Who Might Kill Me Because I Hate Them: I hate Shockey but I don’t fear him – it’s obvious what he’s going to produce.
KICKER
1 Adam Vinatieri, Ind
2 Nate Keading, SD
3 Shayne Graham, Cin
4 Robbie Gould, Chi
5 Neil Rackers, Ari
6 David Akers, Phi
7 Josh Brown, Sea
8 Jason Elam, Den
9 Josh Scobee, Jac
10 Matt Stover, Bal
I won’t do sleepers and busts with kickers, because, c’mon, they’re kickers. My two rules for picking a kicker are to pick one that a) that plays with a team with a high-powered offense; b) to plays on a team in nice weather. But again, this is such a crapshoot – the highest scoring kicker in 2006 was Robbie Gould; in 2005, Neil Rackers; in 2004, Adam Vinatieri – that a kicker should not be drafted until the last or second to last round.
DEFENSE
1 Bears
2 Ravens
3 Patriots
4 Chargers
5 Eagles
6 Broncos
7 Dolphins
8 Cowboys
9 Steeler
10 Jaguars
More important than kickers but more difficult to predict are defenses. Unless you use some crazy scoring systems, the most important indicator of a good fantasy defense is how many TDs it scores (whereas in the NFL defenses are ranked on yards allowed). How the hell can you guess how many TDs a defense will score? Frustrating owners further is that statistically, there is only a slight (or at least erratic) correlation between the NFL’s best defenses and fantasy’s. Fuck. So use this list, use another list, or just make it the fuck up: as long as you don’t take a defense too early, we can still be friends.
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There’s your 2007 fantasy football primer. I apologize for any misspellings, but it pretty much took me forever to write this baby and I’m not running the spellcheck through it because of all the names.
I need a nap. Be back tomorrow.
(If I learned anything during my time in LA, it’s that I’m a much better person when wearing a robe, especially sexually-speaking. How can you not think you’re an incredible lover while making love in a robe? And by "making love" I mean "masturbating in the empty fitness room at 5am.")
It was a very unplanned thing; I didn’t decide I wanted to do it until the day before I left, and had no idea where I’d stay. I didn’t think finding a place to stay would be a problem, thanks to Priceline. I don’t know if you guys are familiar with it, but the name your own price function of Priceline is pretty solid when it comes to hotels. Back when I was writing my book, I had such trouble concentrating in my apartment that on a Friday afternoon at about 3pm, I’d go to Priceline and name my own price of $110 a night for a three or four star hotel in NYC. Since it was already 3pm, my price would be accepted and I was often given the option to get two nights for that price. So I’d hole myself up in an anonymous four star hotel somewhere in midtown Manhattan, buy about six bottles of wine, put on a robe, shut off my phone, and write until I physically couldn’t type anymore, too drunk from the wine. I’m not gonna lie – it was totally fucking awesome.
Naturally, I figured that I’d do the same for my weekend jaunt to San Diego. I wanted something luxurious, since in my book luxury = productivity. Also, this was a vacation in a vacation in a city that I had never been before, so I wanted something nice and centrally located.
So on Friday afternoon, as I had done numerous times while in NYC, I named my own price of $120 a night and searched for four star hotels in San Diego. This price was roundly and immediately rejected. Usually, if your price is rejected, a little note appears asking you to bump up your price a little bit or change your criteria to include areas outside the main part of the city, to increase the chances of your price being accepted. However, my price was so thoroughly rejected that a prompt came up basically saying, "Dude, you’ve gotta be kidding. Take that price and shove it up your cheap ass, fatty."
I won’t get into the downward spiral that this reject spun me into, but I was so insulted that my price was so extremely rejected that Priceline wound up winning and I wound up paying an egregious amount to stay at a nice hotel right on the water in San Diego. Weekend of luxury, here I come. Whatever.
Because of late meetings and traffic, I didn’t get check into the hotel until 10pm on Friday night. Though I was paying an arm and a leg, the hotel was indeed nice, with my room looking out onto the Pacific Ocean and the harbor (or marina or whatever) below, the boats bobbing to the rhythm of the ocean in their docks. I put on my robe, ordered a gigantic room service meal, and popped open one of the bottles of wine I had bought before leaving LA. I was asleep, passed out with contentness with a belly full of wine and room service, by midnight.
The next morning I awoke fairly early, determined to make the most of the weekend. I had decided, however, that for the rest of my stay I was going to live as cheaply as possible. Having splurged not only on the hotel but also the room service meal, I planned on drinking my cheap wine, cheap beer and eating nothing but doritos all day Saturday to help ease the financial burden of the weekend. All this thinking about how much money I was spending got me nervous and I did what I always do when I’m nervous: poop.
One thing I often do while pooping at hotels is remove the roll of toilet paper from its dispenser thingee. I don’t like reaching back and forth to rip different sheets of when wiping, and so I prefer to have it sitting in my lap when I’m wrapping up the process. This hotel, like most hotels, had a double toilet paper holder, so I grabbed the nearest one when I sensed that the fun was about to end.
As I let out the last vestiges of the previous night’s steak, I turned the toilet paper roll around in my hands. Only seconds after my last big push did I make my horrifying discovery. There was a "substance" on the side of the roll of toilet paper I was holding, splattered in various spots on the roll around the tube. It wasn’t poop, though. It was blood.
This…this was disappointing on a number of levels. I am, for better or worse, more comfortable with feces than almost anyone I know. I don’t exactly celebrate it, but I know it, and I know it well. I can even handle blood, growing up as I did watching my friends beat each other to pieces and now enjoying myriad murder shows. But a stranger’s blood – and not a small amount of a stranger’s blood – completely grossed me the F out. There I was, sitting on a toilet, wearing a robe, having just pooped, holding a bloodied roll of toilet paper in my hand. This was not the luxury I had hoped for when I planned my weekend.
Fortunately, the other roll of TP did not have any blood on it, so I was able to successfully use that. I washed my hands thoroughly after the poo, even though I had never directed touched the blood. Once finished, I had to decide what I was going to do.
I am typically not one to ruffle feathers. The surest way to never go on another date with me again is to send something back to the kitchen or be a dick to the waiter or otherwise make a big fuss out of something that does not meet your standards. However, I am not a pussy. And after thinking it over, I decided that I had to tell the hotel about this – blood on a toilet paper roll at a four star hotel warranted a complaint, I thought.
So I called down to the front desk and said I wasn’t sure who to speak to, but that I found something gross in my room. I could tell that the woman I spoke to was more than mildly terrified of what I had found and so she didn’t ask any follow up questions. She said she’d send someone up shortly.
A solid ten minutes later, there was a knock at my door. A dude who looked about 23 years old introduced himself to me as the head of housekeeping at the hotel. He looked like your typical SoCal surfer dude, except that I was sure he was the most effeminate of his surfer friends. I looked down, expecting him to extend his hand for a handshake, but he did not do so because he was wearing rubber gloves.
He tried to be jovial about the situation, saying he had heard that I had found something unpleasant in the room. He, like the woman who took my call, was terrified and tentative with his words and movements. I smiled, said "Well…" and walked into the bathroom, returning to produce the bloody toilet paper roll.
He looked it for too long without speaking I thought, and so I said, "There’s blood on this toilet paper." At that point, he let out a little shriek and gingerly took the toilet paper in his hands and put it into a bag he’d left just outside the room. When he returned to the room, he took a deep breath to compose himself, then apologized profusely, saying that that was one of the grossest things he’d ever seen. I said that it was no problem, that I just wanted to let someone know. He then said, "I noticed that you’re paying for the room yourself this weekend [it's a big convention hotel] and that you had ordered room service last night. We’ll take care of that room service for you, as well as one night of your stay, and really, if there’s anything else we can do, just let me know."
This was more like the luxury I had hoped for when I planned my weekend. A free meal and free night at a hotel, saving me a substantial amount of money, all because of some blood on a roll of toilet paper. Jackpot.
(Needless to say, I know what I’m doing during my next hotel stay. I wonder what a blood soaked robe could get me? I need to start drinking fluids now.)
Not surprisingly, I dropped out of the class after one session. Not, primarily, because it was so early (although this was certainly a factor), but because in that first class the professor had us singing – actually fucking singing, at 9am no less – scales. Though I loved and still love music, I was not about to wake up at 8:30am three times a week to sing do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-da in front of a bunch of strangers.
I took some other non-arts class that semester instead and the following semester five buddies and I signed up for "Introduction to Theater" in order to knock out the fine arts requirement. I was a little apprehensive about theater because, well, theater is for gays and crazy chicks. But successfully nestled in the back of the classroom in my cocoon of buddies, the class went just fine. I actually grew to like it and saw it as a nice break between laborious history classes. Also, I wound up getting a beejer from some chick from the class a year later, which was totally sweet.
One of the plays we read in this class was Moliere’s The Misanthrope. The play is about this dude who basically doesn’t give an F. A guy that he knows wrote this terrible poem and rather than say it was good to be polite, the protagonist says it sucks. Hilarity ensues. The main character eschews politeness and social convention because he doesn’t want to play nice, and in the end goes off and lives alone in a cave somewhere. I think.
I enjoyed the play, in no small part because I could relate to the character in certain ways: we both don’t like poets, we’re both don’t like French people, and we both fall in love easily. But I didn’t realize the extent to which I would become a misanthrope many years later.
******
On Friday night, my friends Jeremy and Brian came over to my place and we drank 23 bud bombers between us while pre-gaming (bud bombers, remember, are 16 oz cans of beer). We then went out to a local bar to meet some friends. Within 45 minutes, I had pulled an Irish Exit – pretending like I was going outside to make a call but then leaving the bar and going home. I couldn’t stand being there.
On Saturday night, my friends Jeremy and Brian and I went over to Hoboken to our friend Brendan’s place for a BBQ. It was incredible; cappicola and fresh mozzarella for appetizers, then half-pound burgers stuffed with bacon and cheese. The four of us drank 49 bottles of beer before going out. I was able to last longer than 45 minutes at the bar, mostly because I was marooned in Hoboken and it wasn’t feasible to return to Manhattan without Jeremy and Brian. So I took comfort in the Golden Tee machine and didn’t so much as look at anyone who I didn’t come to the bar with.
Because of these and other examples, it has become apparent to me that I hate other people. I’ve always had an inkling that I disliked being around people I didn’t know, but I’m finding that as I’m getting older, this "dislike" is growing into something like "rageful passion."
When I’m out at most bars, I look around and immediately think that most everyone is a douchebag. This is probably because I’m insecure. I don’t really know why I feel this way and, to be honest, it concerns me. Do I feel not up to par with the open-shirted former frat boys doing jagerbombs? Am I sad because I’m not as cool as the I-cut-my-own-hair hipsters? Am I resentful because I realize that 99.6% of the women in the bar have little interest in talking to a man with an unruly beard who smells like cheap whiskey and whose only claim to fame is his uncanny ability to joke about how small his penis is? I think it’s all of the above.
But whatever the cause, the bottom line is that my misanthropy is seriously affecting my social life. After the events of Friday night, which found me retreating from the bar faster than a black man escapes the responsibilities of fatherhood, and Saturday night, when the only things that kept me from immediately running back to my apartment were a video game and the Hudson River, I realize that something needs to be done. I have two choices.
1) Do cocaine.
I do not like cocaine. I feel that if you are over 25 and do cocaine – and you are not rich and/or famous – you are gross. Cocaine is gross.
But on the other hand cocaine is awesome. And it would certainly help with my recent bouts of misanthropy; if I had been coked up on Friday night, I probably wouldn’t have left the bar in 45 minutes and instead would have stayed until the lights came on, dancing and having scintillating conversation all the while, which would invariably continue over diner food well into the early morning hours. Instead, I went home and quietly wept to myself in my shower. So doing cocaine is option one.
2) Start a social club.
I kicked around the idea of owning my own bar on here before, but there’s one obstacle to that problem: owning a bar would cost a lot of money and I don’t have money. So there’s that.
On Saturday while barbequing, Brendan, one of my more ambitious/entrepreneurial friends (which isn’t saying much) brought up the idea of a social club. Basically, he suggested we rent a loft space and fill it with a bunch of cool crap – sweet stereo system, big screen tv(s), video game set ups, etc – and a bar. Brendan, Brian, Jeremy and I, the four at the mini-bbq, would be original members, and each of us could invite five other peoples to be members. For a fee – maybe a few hundred dollars a month – each member would have access to the place at all times, at which he could chill out, watch a game, have a beer, smoke a joint, etc. The membership fee would cover rent of the space, upkeep, and keep the bar stocked.
Well.
I really, really like this idea, for many reasons. First and foremost, it’s more social than the four of us sitting in my apartment slamming beers (not that there’s anything wrong with that), and much less annoying than going to bars packed with douchebags. I think it’s the latter that’s so appealing to me; the ability to control who I spend my time with and around is very exciting and possibly arousing for me.
If I were rich, I’d have everyone close to me live on a complex. In the middle would be my home, a modest but tastefully luxurious house in which I’d live alone. To the right of my home, would be a large house filled with all sorts of fun things like a movie room, music studio, batting cage, etc, in which ten or so of my closest friends would live. On the other side of my house would be another modest but tastefully luxurious house in which my wife and children would live. The rest of my family would live within an hour’s drive. But maybe the complex would be hard to find, so they wouldn’t come out there unless they really needed to. Also, the complex would have some sort of Sex Pit or Intercourse Shed, probably in the back of my house. I’m still working with the architects on this.
But until I hit the lottery, my mega complex is only a dream. The social club, however, is fairly attainable. Say monthly rent in a modest loft is $3600 a month. If our little social club had 24 members paying $250 each, that’s $6000. That remaining $2400 a month should cover the cleaning, stocking of the bar, and other miscellaneous costs (cable, internet, etc), with enough leftover to help offset the initial costs (TV’s, sound system, etc). For the record, we’re not talking about a social club with oak paneling and hot 19 year old bartenders pouring from $70 bottles of scotch; more like a bunch of friends sitting around in a half decent loft with nice enough stuff that no one will pee on. Really, with most of my friends, that’s really all you can ask for.
I’m sure that this idea, like all of our ideas, will die soon, if it did not already die when Saturday evening ended. But I’m going to obsess about this for at least a week, and anoint this the true cure for my misanthropy.
(And also I’m going to play the lottery - I owe the architects $21,000 as a consulting fee for my Complex of Solitude. I hope they have bad lawyers.)
(Special almost double edition since I haven’t done this for so long)
"Red Reflection" Spindrift
I spent a lot of time in my sweet sea foam green Ford Taurus rental car in LA, driving from meeting to meeting. I didn’t have any cds, so I mostly listened to the radio. Early in the morning and late at night it’d be 97.1 for Adam Corolla or Love Line. But in the afternoons, I’d listen to either 101.5 (oldies), 93.9 (R&B jams), 95.5 (which was classic rock, but really must have been the official home of the band Boston, since they played them so much) or 103.1 (indie rock). There was some British asshole who had an afternoon show on the indie station who always played incredible, incredible music.
It was on his show that I discovered this song, which sounds like something off the "Dusk Til Dawn" soundtrack. It’s got this bluesy/sexy/dark/mysterious sound to it that makes you want to fuck a dragon (I love it so much I put it on my MySpace page). I’ve currently added it to my "Let’s Make Out or Something" playlist, but it’s so dark and scary that I’m not sure it’ll last on there. I’ll have to ask the next girl I bring home. Provided, of course, she’s not deaf. You know, like four of the last five.
"Maps" The Arcade Fire
Speaking of scary, this is a cover of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs song and is downright terrifying. Listen at your own risk, and expect nightmares.
(Also, I am pretty sure that the members of this band would hate me. On one end of the intensity scale, there are love triangles that end in murder, The Arcade Fire, and hate-fucking. On the other end of the intensity scale, there’s sour cream, me, and water balloons. So I don’t think we’d get along in real life.)
"How Many More Times" Led Zeppelin
Every fan of Led Zeppelin knows the famous riff, but I want to focus on the part of the song that starts around the 5:30 mark, when Robert Plant starts screaming "Oh Rosie!" I don’t know how else to say this, so I’m just gonna let it out: when this part of the song comes on, no matter where I am, I have to take my penis out. It gets so dirty, so funky, so depraved, that my penis just has to come out of my pants. I can’t explain it either. It’s just how it is.
(Seriously though, when he’s singing, "They call me The Hunter…" is there a better example of dirty rock/cock rock than that? I feel like Robert Plant is actually fucking me when he sings those words – and I dig it, I totally fucking dig it. Forget Page’s guitar, which is incredible, but between JPJ’s bass and Bonzo’s drums, like I said, the penis, it comes out. Thank God this part of the song is only about 90 seconds before going back to the main riff.)
This song makes me want to start a band, not only because the riff is so thunderous yet easy you could play it while barely conscious, but also because I bet I could make myself climax if I were rocking out to this song hard enough. If you sing, play drums, or play guitar or bass, please let me know (I can cover either the bass or the guitar part, but not the rest) – or just let me know come over to your basement, get high, and watch you guys play it.
(With my penis out, of course.)
"Yeah! Oh Yeah!" The Magnetic Fields
I was a little high doing the dishes last night and this song came on and nearly blew my brains out. While I don’t want to give it away, I kind of have to: it’s about a failing marriage that ends when the husbands kills his wife – not exactly a lullaby, I know. But unlike the other songs mentioned, I don’t find myself particularly frightened by this song. Maybe it makes me feel a little cold (none of the Magnetic Fields’ music should be listened to in warm sunny weather – this shit is for winter), and it definitely makes me intrigued, but I’m not scared. Maybe I’m turning a corner.
"Stardust" John Coltrane
I don’t know anything about jazz, but I do know that if I had to pick one song to listen to immediately after my wife tells me she’s been fucking my agent – who, coincidentally, I’ve been fucking – this is the song I’ll listen to. Translation: this song is soothing and calms me down.
"Walk On" Neil Young
Up until about two years ago, I really didn’t like Neil Young. Maybe even hated him. I don’t know what happened around that time, but now I’m kinda of in love with him. Last year I went to Maine with some friends and did a CRAPLOAD of drugs and booze and listened to this album, "On The Beach," from which this is the opening track, over and over again. Now, whenever I hear this song, it brings me right back to that beach house, sitting on a deck at 3am watching the ocean break against the sand, eating a whole bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, hoping to God the mushrooms start to wear off because I’m pretty sure that I’m going to start wielding a knife in, like, 30 seconds.
Magical, magical times.
(Also, really great song.)
"Don’t Matter" Akon
Because nobody wanna to see us together, but it don’t matter, no.
"Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me" Mel Carter
One of my five favorite songs ever. When I hear this, I am reduced to a sobbing, blubbering mass who just wants to hold hands with and/or smell a woman’s hair. This is why I will marry the first woman who asks me to slow dance with her. And also why all of my male children will be homosexual. At this point, whatever.
"Black Like Me" Spoon
This is a very, very good album, friends. The single "The Underdog" is exceptional, as is "You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb", but if I had to pick a favorite, it’d be this one. I could talk about how I am in love with the chord progressions in this song, but fuck it – it’s just a great little rock song that sounds unlike anything I’ve heard in a long time. This song was added to my "Sitting & Drinking" playlist before it had finished its first play on my iTunes.
"There Is A Mountain" Donovan
I’m pretty down on Donovan, because it seems like he’s been playing the "I was friends with the Bob Dylan and the Beatles" card forever and I can only name two of his songs. Also, I once checked out his iTunes celebrity playlist and no lie, seven of the ten songs were by him. Major, major turn-off.
However, this song makes me wish I was a fucking hippie. Real bad. I want to have a picnic in Central Park and buy some bongos just so a bunch of strangers and I can sing and play this song together. He may be a douche, but it’s a hell of a catchy song.
"Steal Away" Robbie Dupree
This song has been in my head for about 22 years, even though I don’t think I had heard it for about 15 years until I downloaded it recently. And though I admit it’s catchy, it’s also just about the worst song I’ve ever heard – in a critical sense. I mean, I can feel my musical tastes getting worse every time I hear this song, with that stupid catchy "doo-doo-doo-doo/doo- doo/doo-doo-doo" hook throughout – it’s like I want to kick my own ass for kinda liking it.
Why do I recommend it on here? Because like I said, I’ve been suffering with it for 22 years. Now you have to. Welcome to my nightmare.
[Have a good weekend]
[PS – I am going to get really, really drunk tonight.]
1) I’m fat.
2) I’m super hairy.
3) I have a baby penis.
4) Women, they are not attracted to me so much.
5) I drink a lot – it makes me feel good.
6) Seriously, I have a really small bird. To be honest, I’m not even sure it’s there anymore; I haven’t seen it in weeks.
That’s about it. Sure, I make fun of my friends and family sometimes and occasionally provide scathing social commentary, but I’d say 82% of this site comes from those six jokes. Thank god y’all are just so bored at your jobs that you keep coming back. God bless you, you magnificent sons of bitches.
Anyway, it’s those days when something out of the ordinary happens to me, thus giving me something new to talk about, that I’m most grateful for. Like, for example, when something strange happens on my way to work, or I get a call from a buddy telling me a funny story, or my dad writes an editorial from the Philadelphia Daily News titled, "My Son Jasin [sic], The Half-a-Fag," and 100 people I grew up with forward it to me. These give birth to new posts that don’t revolve around the Six Jokes. Which is a good thing, I guess.
But sometimes something out of the ordinary happens to me that, even though I know it will make for great material, I wish had never happened to me at all. Like, for example, the events of yesterday.
On Tuesday night, I went out for a drink and left the bar just after 2am. I felt spectacular; I had a good time and a solid buzz that loosened me up nicely without causing me to worry about a hangover the next day. It was my first night out in NYC in weeks. It was a warm but clear and lovely night, the streets winding through Soho on the way back to my apartment were empty and felt like mine. I looked forward to getting into my apartment, cranking up the AC in my bedroom, and falling quickly asleep, content to be home.
But it was only seconds after I opened to the door to my apartment that that dream was quickly ruined. I noticed that, for the second time in three months, my toilet had exploded, spewing toilet water all over my bathroom and into my kitchen. But unlike last time, when the water was mostly clear, this water had stuff in it. This water was a murky greenish-brown, with soggy strings of toilet paper and what appeared to be shredded lettuce in it. And there was something else even more vile: chunks of brown matter, some as large as a baby’s fist, passing like ships in the water. We’re talking feces here, people - real, live poopy, floating in my bathroom, spilling into my kitchen.
Yikes.
And, [sound of me throwing up, pooping myself, then lighting my apartment and all my possessions on fire.]
Before I could process what was going on, I acted. The toilet was still exploding, so I quickly ran into my bedroom, threw on an old pair of boots and grabbed every towel I owned (save for one) and headed into the mess. If I learned anything from my toilet fiasco last time, it’s that in order to stop a toilet from exploding one must turn the toilet value against the wall on the lower left side of the toilet, effectively cutting off water to the toilet. This is first thing I did, in the hopes of preventing further damage. It was only after I had done this that I was able to assess what was going on: I was standing in my bathroom at 2:30 in the morning, half-drunk, in a inch of feces-filled water, wearing work boots, and holding my soon-to-be very unluxurious towels in my hands. Personally, I would have preferred to end the night with a handjob or a slice of pizza, but this would have to do, I guess.
I then went about the grim task of laying towels down to sop up the shit water, covering up the little balls of shit on my floor. As I did this, I was recovering from the initial shock and started to assess the situation. I would lay the towels down, then I would change. I still didn’t have a contact number for either my super, a drunk Italian man in his fifties who drinks wine all day at the Italian restaurant I live above, nor for my landlord, who can usually be found in the back office of said restaurant. Because it was almost 3am, the restaurant was closed. So I decided that after laying down the towels I would do some googling and hire the people who clean up after murders to come into my apartment and forever rid it of any traces of feces. They would probably come in the morning, and after they did their job, I’d promptly had the bill to landlord. This was the second time this had happened in three months, so obviously it didn’t get fixed the first time by plumbers the landlord chose, so they were going to pay not just to get it fixed, but for the clean up and the repurchase of all my bathroom stuff. F that.
Then it occurred to me: the poop I was standing in was not my poop. I had just returned to the apartment at 3am Sunday night/Monday morning. It was now Tuesday night, just about 48 hours later. In the meantime, I hadn’t even shit at my place yet, instead doing my duty at work. So the feces that I was now crushing under my previously luxurious towels belonged to either a) the tourists who ate in the Italian restaurant below or b) my Chinese neighbors.
Before I had time to process this thought and subsequently rip my own genitals off in disgust, the toilet exploded again – with extreme prejudice. While I was not hit by any of the turdish water pouring out (I was outside the bathroom in the kitchen at this point and the bathroom door was partially closed), poo water shot out of the toilet and the water level in the bowl soon rose and spilled over, again flooding the bathroom floor.
Again, yikes.
This was not supposed to happen. I had shut off the toilet valve, meaning no water should be coming into the toilet at all. But here it was, rising like the creature from the black lagoon out of the bowl, seeping slowly onto the towels on the floor after a quick shotgun blast.
This is where the real panic set in. I needed to call someone, and fast. I ran outside my apartment to see if anyone was in the restaurant – no dice. I called the restaurant, hoping at least for a machine, but there was no answer (it was 3am and dark inside the restaurant, so it was a shot in the dark). My super lives in the building next door, but the outer door was locked and the building doesn’t have a buzzer. So I wasn’t going to be able to get in touch with either my super or the landlord. Terrific.
The only recourse, I thought, was to call a plumber now. Like I said, every towel and dish rag in my apartment was now stemming the tide of the shit water, and it was working. Therefore, I had bought myself some time. So I sat at my computer and googled, "24 hour plumber NYC." Dozens of hits came up. I checked the Yahoo yellow pages – dozens of 24 hour plumbers as well. So I got to dialing.
I was up until after 4am calling these "24 hour" plumbers. Only one of the two dozen I called answered, and he said he’d be at my place at 9:30am. Again, terrific.
I walked over to my bathroom. The shit water was still coming out of the toilet, but at a much slower pace – it seemed generally less angry at me now. The towels were holding up and stemming the tide of shit water, not yet saturated. To be sure, I went and grabbed some old t-shirts to lay on top of the towels for extra absorption. Then, with nothing else to do, I went to bed, shit-spewing toilet and all.
******
The next morning is a blur of rage and feces. The plumber I called came, but he was sent away by my still drunk from the night before super, who refused to pay his price. This cause such a great deal of hubbub that one of the brothers of my landlord arrived at the scene. Instead, the super called his own plumbers, the same Russian guys who showed up before and previously "fixed" this problem. They soon showed up and began to work on the toilet.
By the point, after having slept about three hours the night before, I called my office to let them know I was working from home to make sure this problem was resolved. While the Russian plumbers worked away in my bathroom, I sat in my home office, trying to get stuff done. After about two hours, I heard a knock on my office door.
It was the landlord’s brother, an Italian-America guy with a thick Long Island accent. "It’s done," he said, "It’s fixed. But could you believe that?" Feeling that he might be blaming me, I said that I couldn’t believe it and didn’t know what caused the problem, pointing out that I returned two nights prior from a three week trip out of town and haven’t even shit in my bathroom since. Surprised, he asked if the plumbers had shown me was caused the problem. When I said no, he shook his head in disgust and said one word: "Tampons."
Apparently, he continued, someone in the building had been flushing tampons down the toilet, causing a building-wide septic system back-up that released itself on my apartment. "And," he added, "I think I know who it was."
There are eight apartments in my building: my apartment, an old Italian lady who lives on the top floor, and then six apartments filled with Chinese families. The landlord’s brother speculated that there was not one Tampon Bandit, but two – in this case, a set of Chinese twins maybe 12 years old who lived in the building. The landlord’s brother, with great gusto and a passion reserved for the most intense conspiracy theorist/lunies, said that it must be these twins, a few floors up and newly pubescent and therefore unschooled in the ways of tampon disposal, that were flushing their tampons down the toilet, nearly ruining the plumbing.
I was stunned listening to this, but just when I thought it couldn’t get any better – Chinese pubescent twins causing feces to explode into my apartment because of their tampon flushage? – he added, "And I bet they’re Chinese tampons, like real industrial-grade shit. You know what I mean? Probably not biodegradable and real serious shit, you know what I mean?"
Um, no. I have no idea what you mean at all, actually. But I’m glad my toilet’s fixed.
I spent the remainder of the day working with cleaning crews to clean the mess up, which they actually did a good job doing, and then spent my evening/night cleaning the place myself, which I did a pretty solid job of. While I probably wouldn’t eat off my bathroom floor, I bet it’s probably cleaner now then it was before Shit Expo 2007.
I don’t know if there’s a lesson in this story, because I’m very tired. And I suppose I’m glad I got a good story out of it – after all, it has all the dramatic elements needed: industrial strength tampons, 12 year old Chinese twins, a whole lot of shit, and a half-drunk protagonist.
But really, next time I’m hard up for something to write about, I’ll figure it out. The shit on my bathroom floor caused by tampons…that, I could live without. Really.
Hope y’all can make it.
Well, that was interesting.
I got back to NYC last night (at 2am – thank you, Delta, for being a paragon of punctuality) after three weeks in Los Angeles. And what I’d like to say is…wow.
What I’d also like to say is: I’m sorry. I’m sorry for disappearing most of these past three weeks, but I assure that I was thinking about you the whole time. At work, at home, in the bathroom, even during Uncle Jason’s Private Time, you were on my mind. It’s just that, well, I was exhausted.
Whereas I spent my first week in LA spending my afternoons lackadaisically (and lovingly) loving myself through various lengthy self-love sessions (lot of love there), the last two weeks of my trip were pure chaos. I moved out of my hotel early in the second week and into my buddy Dan’s place in Santa Monica. Dan is a buddy who is a teacher and who returned to Philly over this summer break, so he let me crash in his bedroom and at his place with his roommates, Donnie and PJ. This meant that my commute was no longer six minutes to and from work. This also meant that my days of lying on a hotel bed, robed, spread eagle, grunting and spitting and tugging at my genitals, were over. Which sucked. Pretty bad.
Another factor that stopped my seemingly unending tide of masturbation was that the number of meetings I had increased. Remember, I went out there to pursue another entertainment industry-type thingee that I can’t really get into (lest I embarrass myself if/when it fails), but I worked out of my firm’s LA office every day from 6:30am to 2:30pm, so I could take meetings in the late afternoons/early evenings. This allowed me to pursue my other interest while not burning a ton of vacation days to do so. Sweet.
And for a while, it was pretty sweet. Work was actually pretty intense and I was constantly groggy, but I could deal with that. The main "problem" was that the number of meetings I took drastically increased over the length of my stay (and I realize this is not a bad problem to have had, but I am very big and tire easily). For example, in my first week in LA, I had two meetings all week long; on my last Friday there, I had three meetings on that day alone. As my number of meetings increased meaning I had longer days and less "me" time, even if I had been able to masturbate in peace, I probably would have been too tired to do so.
(Author’s Note: The previous sentence is kind of a lie. Thank you.)
And if you’ve ever even heard of LA, you know that it has a crapload of traffic. So I’d wake up at 5:20am, work eight or nine hours, then spend several hours driving to all the corners of Los Angeles, sometimes back and forth into the Valley, sucking down diet cokes, fumbling with mapquest directions, grunting and spitting and tugging at my genitals.
(Hey, I was crunched for time; if a man can’t make time for him and his bird, he’s not a man at all. And it was a rental anyway, so who cares?)
Leaving home when it’s dark and returning home when it’s dark really, really sucks. I can’t stress this enough. Not only did it wear me out, but it nearly destroyed my friendships. The number of texts, emails and phone calls I did not return while I was in LA is not in the hundreds, but probably right around a hondo. I couldn’t hang out with my LA friends during the week because I was often too tired to even wipe my own ass, let alone meet at 9pm for drinks halfway across town. And I didn’t speak much to my friends back East because I was too worn out and basically didn’t feel like answering the multiple questions they’d have about how things were going/what I was doing in LA. Of course, they’d ask these questions because, you know, they’re good at being a friend. I’d not return their phone calls because I’d rather spend the hour I had between dinner and going to sleep lying in bed, listening to the sound of my own breathing and wishing I’d hit the lottery so I’d never have to wake up early again. And I’m terrible at being a friend.
(Seriously, I was the worst friend ever over the past three weeks. And I’m sorry for that. So sorry I don’t even have a joke here. So you know I’m for real.)
But this past weekend, my last in LA, was the time when I was to make it up to everyone, when I’d suck it up, drink as many vodka red bulls as I could fit in my belly, and rage, rage against the dying of the light. I had completed three intense weeks in LA and now it was time to rock out with my cock out – no excuses.
Or at least that was the plan.
When I got home in the evening from meetings on Friday, I took a quick nap. I woke up an hour later, shivering. Because Dan and his roommates are hypochondriacs, they had a thermometer handy. I took my temperature: 102.1.
Crap.
So I wound up very nearly spending my last weekend in LA literally raging against the dying of the light, as I lay in bed, shivering, then sweating, then spitting up mucus (sorry, Dan , but I did wash your sheets really good before I left). I had noticed during the day on Friday that my throat was sore, but I thought this was because I had been talking so goddamn much over the past few days. I never thought it was a sign of something else; and anyway, what’s the big deal about a sore throat? Didn’t they prescribe whiskey for sore throats until like 1977? I was going to be fine.
But when I took my temperature, it was all downhill from there. I shut it down big time on Friday night, loading up on acetaminophen and leaving bed only to go to the bathroom, hoping to crush my illness in one fell swoop so that I could salvage the weekend by going out on Saturday night.
Shortly after I woke up on Saturday morning, my temperature was 102.9. That was about all she wrote. I spent my entire Saturday in bed, sleeping for short spells, sweating and moaning. I realize this sounds very sensual, but I assure you it was not. Not at all, really.
I was scheduled to fly back on Sunday, but as I lay there on Saturday, I contemplated flying out on Monday. There was no way I could take a 5.5 hour flight feeling like I did. On the other hand, I need to get the F back home, back to NYC, back to my apartment and my stuff. I feel asleep on Saturday night hoping that I’d wake up well enough to make the flight home.
Yesterday, Sunday morning, my temperature was just over 100, so I medically cleared myself to make the trip home. I packed up my things and headed out to LAX, saying goodbye to Los Angeles on the way out. I prayed to myself, God and Allah for a quick and painless flight home.
I don’t think I’d be able to pick my favorite part about my flight. Maybe it was the 2.5 hour delay that meant I arrived in NYC at 2am. Maybe it was the Arab gentleman who sat next to me and took his shoes off during the flight, nearly knocking me unconscious with the stink of his feet (I don’t claim to be an expert on Arab culture, so I ask: is it customary to carry decomposing mice in one’s loafers? I honestly will not be able to taste food for at least a week). Or maybe it was the baby who not cried but shrieked from the moment we took off until the moment we landed. This baby sat ten rows in front of me and I had headphones on the whole time and still it was arguably the most annoying noise I’ve ever heard in my life. When the plane finally landed and the lights came on, I noticed that the people in the rows surrounding this baby looked like they wanted to kill themselves and one guy had tried to give himself a vasectomy using only a butterknife and the free Delta headphones (they hooked us up because of the delay – thanks guys). I actually should have been more angry about the baby shrieking the entire time, but I felt like Ron Burgundy after Buster ate the whole wheel of cheese: I was too impressed to be mad. How a child of twenty pounds could not only ruin a flight for two hundred people but also make noise at such a high volume level for such a long time…it was truly amazing.
But the important thing is that I’m back. I plan on eating a shitload of Thai food tonight, taking a long shower, and going to bed at 9pm, but I’m in NYC for the foreseeable future. That means I will resume regularly scheduled posting. I have two posts that I started but didn’t finish that I wrote while in LA, so maybe I’ll put those up on here and back-date them (though I usually don’t like doing that). I will also dig through the emails that I’ve neglected over the past few weeks. But all of this is just details. The point: I’m committed to you. I worked hard, suffered a Lindsay Lohan/Dave Chappelle bout of exhaustion, and spent three weeks out of my element, but I’m back. And I promise Uncle Jason will make everything better.
Now let’s never be apart again.