July 2006 Archives

More interesting things

I do not know how Pauly or Otis do it. They live this schedule for six weeks, and I am falling apart after four days. Half of my face comes off every time I wash it (it sort of resembles a piece of limestone right now) and I might lose a toe. I'm ready for my Stacy Adams shoes to be broken in; right now, all they're breaking are my feet. Even my daily workouts aren't helping my body recover from the poisoning it gets on a nightly basis. Here are a few more observations from the past few days that I found interesting. Also some pictures from the crappy camera I bought from Wal-Mart that I was warned sucked and does. Plus some camera phone pictures and video.

Here is a camera phone pic from the VooDoo Lounge where I was Thursday night, looking south:

And north:

Here is a video of Phil Hellmuth dancing at VooDoo Lounge. I don't know how I forgot about this, but I found the video in my phone and a note about it in my Moleskine.

The hallways are a fire hazard as there are thousands of spectators and players and they all want to be in the Amazon Room at the same time. Here is a video of the typical hallway outside:

Here is James Garner opening Day 1A of the Main Event with the "Gentlemen, Start Your Engines" of the poker world, "Shuffle Up & Deal!"

He would probably appreciate if I stopped calling him Phil. Also, he's old. Very old. If you, like me, invest in deadpools, add Phil James to your list.

There is an enormous expo area with booths set up for major poker sites and other poker-related enterprises. One booth is a sports memorabilia store, and they brought in Pete Rose to sign (overpriced) autographs.

Except they brought him in when the Media/Celebrity tournament was scheduled.

So there I am, looking at Pete Rose, sitting forlornly by himself, wondering why nobody was around to talk to him. They were all inside the Amazon Room staring at Cindy Margolis' boobs or Shannon Elizabeth's makeup.

I've been hanging out with some Xavier grads, one of whom is playing tomorrow. He's a PokerStars qualifier and so we were lucky to get some early access to their suite and swag. I'm going to have to mail all this stuff home, unless some of you want it, I mean, I have all sorts of T-shirts, hats, gewgaws.

An Asian girl at VooDoo Lounge refused to believe that I am not myself Asian.

Johnny Chan cut in front of one of my Xavier friends at the Rio's fast food Chinese place. He got sweet and sour chicken, then ate it by himself in the Rio sports book. I meanwhile watched him eat and hit a 64:1 exacta.

Anna Benson hit on me. Well, if you call her walking up to me and saying "I just have to tell you, that's an awesome tie" hitting on me. I don't know why she's here, but she has a booth for her web site in the expo center.

Bodog has a booth where you can go into a "bedroom" and get into a pillow fight with promo models in lingerie. The line is very long and consists mostly of fat and pasty PokerStars qualifiers.

Johnny Chan later handed me a deck of cards, to which I responded, "Thanks, Champ." The world no longer comes to a stop when Johnny Chan is in the room. Then again, maybe it never did, and that's just a line in a movie. Nevertheless, Johnny Chan was the ugliest promo model in the expo center.

I met Louie Anderson as he was getting ready to take on Chris Moneymaker in sumo wrestling. Err, I mean, poker. Hachem and Raymer were there, too, for a PokerStars heads-up challenge on the computer. There is nothing more enticingly boring than watching the last two champions of the World Series of Poker Main Event play each other in computer poker.

Really, that's Joe Hachem and The Fossilman.

Louie Anderson is fantastically fat, moreso than nearly any person I have ever met. I don't know if they gave him a special chair or something for his seat in today's Main Event, because I haven't gone over there yet. He's not been busted yet, so I'll have my chance in an hour or so. He did get a ten minute penalty for dropping the f-bomb. There are only two things banned in the cardroom: smoking, the f-bomb, and dotcoms. Wait, that's three.

Chris Moneymaker is very quiet and not very attractive. He is fairly friendly, though, not as much as Raymer, but friendly.

She sat down next to me at the bar at the Scottish Pub, Tilted Kilt. "Where are you from?" I asked. She responded, "Uh, I'm from here." "That's not very interesting," I replied, and got up and left.

I found a VIP card for Club Rio on the ground the other day, so I stood in line for an hour (apparently not a big enough VIP to go to the front) and got in for free. I left after about 20 minutes because it was about the stupidest, worst club I'd ever been in. Maybe it gets better later, but at 1am on a Saturday night it sucked butt. There were, by a bouncer's estimate, five times the number of men in the room as women. The few girls that were there were fat and ugly. They looked nothing like the barely-dressed woman in the poster advertising Club Rio outside. If I'd paid $20 to get in I'd have to kick my own ass. I guess that's why VIP cards can be found abandoned on the ground. I left for the small lounge next to Club Rio. I saw the bartender flairing and flashed my L.A. Hangout VIP card.

"You know Alcohol Paul?" he asked.

"I'm his best customer," I lied. It's amazing how many people here that dude knows, and how many doors my L.A. Hangout VIP card opens. Greg knows Paul from his Kahunaville days.

I don't have much to say after that except I woke up this morning in my clothes on top of the bed and half a glass of Captain Morgan on the nightstand.

Penn Jillette (of Penn & Teller) knocked me over in a hallway. He was apologetic.
Ron Jeremy asked me the time
Cindy Margolis rubbed her magnificently fake breasts across my chest
Made out with a dental hygenist (sp?)
I name-dropped Alcohol Paul and drank for free at an amazing club... overlooking the Strip... my blood is 90% captain morgan now
I walked through Rio and was amazed at the number of people saying hi to me, until a few minutes
later I realized Phil Hellmuth was walking right behind me
I danced with Daniel Negreanu's press agent (maybe did more? can't remember)
I talked to James Garner
I talked to two women who did not know who James Garner was ("Maverick, Rockford Files?" "Not ringing a bell."
I bet on dogs at Tampa Greyhound with a real-life card cheat
Okay, I didn't bet, but I pretended to and drank every Miller Lite the cocktail waitress could bring
Doyle Brunson hit me with his crutch (on accident)
I talked to Wil Wheaton while he was fuming over losing a hand to a total jackoff jerk (whoops)
and I've had my fantastic seersucker suit and white bucks outfit complimented several times

back to the Rio... and after that, who knows.

It was a good news, bad news scenario

Bob came up to his friend Carl.

"Have I got a story for you. I was out flying my airplane, and it caught on fire!"

Carl replied, "Oh no! That's bad!"

"No, it's good," the pilot Bob said, "because I got out of the plane before it crashed."

"Oh. Good," answered Carl.

"No, it's bad, because I didn't have my parachute," said Bob.

"Oh my. That's bad!" said Carl.

Bob answered, "No, it's good, because Farmer Jones had just left a haystack right under where I'd jumped out of my plane."

"Wow!" Carl shouted. "That's great!"

"No, it's terrible," said Bob, "because Farmer Jones left his pitchfork sticking straight up out of the middle of the haystack."

"Noooooooo! That's bad!" said Carl.

"No, it's good, because I missed the pitchfork," said Bob.

"Phew. That's good."

"No, it's bad, because I missed the haystack too."

I'm stuck in the Minneapolis airport for five hours. That's bad.

I'm in the Northwest WorldPerks Worldclub, with free wireless and free drinks. And I just found the bottle of Jim Beam.

That's good.



I leave tomorrow morning for Las Vegas and Ohio. I'll keep y'all up to date, trust me. Lots of interviews, etc to do. And playing poker, of course.

Packing for 12 days of being away takes a lot of planning. Click the jump to see my wardrobe plan. mock it if you like.

Bringing everything back around

Yes, the ending of Clerks II made me cry. I'll explain why when I have time. As for now, we're prepping for 12 days outside the Sunshine State: nine in Las Vegas, three in Ohio.

Tonight I played bowling with a couple dudes I just met and had a great time. And saw Clerks II. I'll review it... later.

The good news: I discovered today that my neighborhood is across the street from a Skyline.

Yes, a Skyline Chili. I knew about the one in Clearwater Beach, but that's like 15 minutes away. THIS ONE IS ACROSS THE STREET.

The bad news: IT CLOSES AT TEN P.M.

What is the point of a Skyline if it's not open when I need it most?

What a difference a day makes

This morning, I woke up and fried two eggs for breakfast.

Then Bush vetoed funding for stem cell research.

This morning, I woke up and fried two chickens for breakfast.

The Greatest Mystery

How is Rita Cosby still employed? I quite literally immediately change the channel whenever she comes on -- it's basically a reflex action.

You'll have that in the big city

Call me an Interbay Superstar acolyte. While I'll never have the style, glamour, or connections of Rachel*, I'm trying to make the most of my new world here in Pinellas -- while remembering my roots. Thus, I'm not really living the South Tampa - St. Pete lifestyle as much as I am the Lutz-Oldsmar-Clearwater. It's like cutting your Manhattan with tap water. Call me a Redneck Interbay Superstar, a rover, a wanderer, a vagabond...

Call me what you will, the last two nights have been fruitless and toothless, but there's a story in every smile.

In my never-ending quest to find actual Devil Ray fans watching baseball, I headed out Friday night to watch the Anaheim game (10:05 start) and figured the Clearwater Dogwater Cafe would be a good place -- a well respected sports bar, yadda. Well, it was half empty, and despite the game being underway, and signs posted EVERYWHERE advertising drink specials during Rays games, it wasn't on any of the televisions. I'd committed myself, though, and the bartender found the game for me. I stayed through the seventh, then headed over to the lauded 420 Park Place. The band was playing The Bangles, and were pretty good, but a good band can't help a dead establishment, so I rolled out after a Select and found myself back at Eddie's in Dunedin. I got the lowdown on the places to be from some guys at the bar, and headed home. Little to say about my Friday night adventures.

I was more determined to find a good spot to watch the game on Saturday. I ran down to the US 19 Mugs & Jugs, which was packed. Despite having, oh, 400 or so televisions, zero were tuned to the Rays. I asked the bartender if the one television NOT tuned to the boxing match (it was showing Law & Order) could be tuned to the Rays, and she snapped at me. I don't know if rudeness is part of the decor at Mugs & Jugs, but I decided I had better places to be.

Where else would I be guaranteed to find people watching the game but at Ferg's, the sports bar across from Tropicana Field? So I ventured into St. Pete, wandered past the homeless dudes, and walked into Ferg's. A Jimmy Buffett tribute band played to a crowd of 50-somethings and the NASCAR race was on all the televisions. I walked past a "Private Party" sign and into a private party for Rays pitcher Doug Waechter. At least they had the game on in there, but I felt guilty taking their beer, so I drove down Central Avenue and on a whim stopped in a tiny joint called Steve's.

Your usual hole-in-the-wall, Steve's had a pool table, new jukebox, some hipster kids near the front, and some grizzled old men huddled around the ancient television in back watching... the Devil Rays. The grizzled old men were true fans, and I enjoyed watching the middle innings, though being trapped into a conversation with a dude without his teeth whom I relied upon the tone of his voice to determine how I ought to respond to his mumblings. I excused myself to bowl, using the incentive of $500 to the first 300 game as inspiration. Steve gives free drinks to every 220 game, but I could only manage a 218.

I told Steve I was going next door for open mic at Cafe Bohemia, where I drank some unspecified Hollish ale and listened to a pink-haired lounge singer whom I'm sure is some kind of cult figure over here. If anything, it was true St. Pete, and when they packed up, I went back nextdoor to rap with the hipster kids.

Gave 420 a second chance, and it turned out to be the last. Ran out to Eddie's, and the parking lot was nearly empty. Finally dropped by JJ's Prime Time and found the sparse crowd friendly, if... sparse. Undaunted, I rolled over to Hillsborough for last call at Chase Club, and... well, you can probably figure out where this is going. The brunette wasn't impressed with my game, so I rolled it on back to Dunwater Harbor.

If you think we're giving up, you're crazy. It's a new town, it'll take some shakes to get the snowflakes falling. And Steve's a cool dude.

Also, this story was just on SportsCenter, and it's totally changed my opinion of Kobe Bryant. Eh, not totally. Somewhatally.


Update: Steven Levitt has emailed me to say he's attending a party the night I arrive and then taking a redeye back. So no, I will not be meeting Steven Levitt.

But hey! I got an email from Steven Levitt! That's something.

Could I be so lucky? | Pinellas adventures

I have always been a fan of economics, particularly at the micro level, and read Levitt and Dubner's Freakonomics several times. It quickly became one of my favorite books, ever, and Steven Levitt became one of my heroes.

Imagine my surprise when Levitt posted in his blog the following:

I’m going to have a team of researchers in Las Vegas running some experiments on decision making by poker players. We are looking for serious poker players who (a) will be in Las Vegas between July 21 and July 27, (b) want to make a little money and get a signed copy of Freakonomics, (c) read about themselves in the sequel to Freakonomics, and (d) have about an hour to spare.

Are you kidding me? I arrive in Las Vegas to do MY work on poker the 26th. Could I possibly meet up with the man himself? Could I discuss a chapter of my dissertation with THE Dr. Steven Levitt? Stay tuned.


Wednesday night ventured out to explore the bars and taverns of my new neighborhood. Stopped in Norton's, only a block away, and found it pretty dead. A Select and round of bowling and I got out. I can't just walk into a place and walk out if it's dead -- I know some people can. I can't. I figure I owe them at least the amount of time it takes to guzzle a Select, which is about 90 seconds.

So I drove around downtown Dunedin, didn't see much going on, until on Alt19 I came across Eddie's. I popped into the place and found 2-for-1s to my liking, so I fired up a deuce of the Dunedin Brewery's Pale Ale. Chatted with three kids at the bar, teachers, and when their friends showed up we moved to the other room for some darts and air hockey. I have never, EVER, been so bad at darts as I was that night, but the crew didn't seem to mind, and my partner was on the phone with her fiance most of the time anyway. Two more Selects, more darts, and the crew (some of which had moved down from Chi-town three days prior) took to me okay, though the women were all taken. I skipped out on meeting them Thursday at the Roundup, as the country dance thing ain't my style.

Took my leave and found myself as open mic night was winding down at the Dunedin Brewery, which inexplicably was closing at 1. Hello? Pinellas already chokes itself with the inane 2am bar close, and you're going to cut things off even earlier? I lounged at the smoking patio with some hipsters and some guy who apparently gave me his business card... I think he wanted to hire me to do landscape work. Not sure. Rolled in, slept on the floor.

Thursday was a meetup with the old gang at the UA, though my night was somewhat interrupted when a cute blonde in a bright pink shirt asked if I had a quarter. I'm a poor ass, so I didn't have a dime on me, but I directed her to a change machine. She asked if I could break for her friends who were playing pool. Never one to back down from a challenge, I walked away from my crew and headed up to the tables. Pinky introduced me to her three friends, one a smokin' brunette in a soulful shade of blue. I can't remember sh*t for names lately, so it helped the initials in the order I was introduced made the memorable acronym of KAML. I chatted up the brunette who looked back with wide open eyes. They weren't USF students; in fact, they'd just moved here three weeks ago from Madison.


"We're on a one-year fellowship mission."


I'm a good Catholic boy, but my brand of Jesus isn't the same as these gals, and I found myself torn between trading come-ons for Jesus' love and ended up settling on a topic we could all agree on: the evils of Scientology.

"They just haven't found the love of Jesus Christ yet."

I sank the Eight and headed back to my friends, not after accepting an offer to head to their apartment Sunday for spaghetti. I dunno if that's a euphemism, but a boy can dream.

A quick beer at the LA and a shot of Marnier and it was time to head home. Or not. Dropped in on the Chase Club for karaoke night, slow, but rocked the house with some New York State of Mind and rolled with some insurance salesmen. Male-Female was about infinity, so I stuck around for two Blues and rolled out.

It's Friday, and I'm a loss as to where I'm headed tonight.

Letting it go


My roommate accidentally threw out a large box she thought was garbage last night. It's really my fault, as I should have more clearly delineated what boxes belonged to me and what belonged to her absent sister (aka garbage).

What was in the box?

I don't really know. And that's what kills me. With over 60 boxes labeled and inventoried, this box contained the last objects I took out of the house where I've lived the past month. Thus, the box contained (at least):

My new Canon S2 IS camera
My favorite pair of shoes:

...which aren't made anymore. Seriously, I've never loved a pair of shoes as much as those.
My black belt
My rockstar jeans
The legs to my plastic storage stand
And...who knows what else.

The camera, which with SD card was over $400, doesn't really bother me. Yes, I'm in more debt right now than I've been in my life, without a dime in the world, and in need of a good camera to handle my experiences in Las Vegas in two weeks, but it's replaceable. So's the belt. The jeans were my favorite pair but I'm pretty sure I can get another pair for under ten bucks. The shoes aren't made anymore, and I'm really pained to know they're gone. There's other clothes that were in there too, I'm sure, but my clothes are in so many different boxes and bags right now that I really won't know until I go to put something on and find it's disappeared.

What really kills me is not knowing what else is in that box, buried by now in some Pinellas landfill. That lack of knowledge is eating away at me, and I think I need to go exploring the bars of Pinellas County for a drink or ten.

Great way to start my first full day in my new house.

On Cognitive Dissonance | I hate Red Sox fans


Cognitive dissonance is the condition of unease or anxiety caused when one's beliefs, attitudes, and behaviors come into conflict with one another. It's a core concept of persuasive theory, and one I've been teaching for seven years now. I always considered myself such an expert on persuasion so as to be completely immune to appeals utilizing cognitive dissonance, because my behavior is so deliberated-upon that I don't really see any conflicts between how I behave and how I feel.

This week has sent my cognition into a state of dissonance more dischordant than a Philip Glass composition.

The reason?

I hate Red Sox fans. HATE them. There are many reasons to hate Red Sox fans, but here are several.

1. The vast majority of the Red Sox fans in the Tampa Bay area are bandwagoners, realizing their support for the Sox only in the midst and denouement of the 2004 World Series. They are not true fans, but fans only because they want to sing when they're winning.

2. They are obnoxious. Far more obnoxious than any other team's fans. Sox fan is "likes to fight guy" combined with "rich, snooty kid with all the nice furniture down the street." Sox fan sees no problem with being a guest in your home and telling you to shut up. Sox fan sees no contradiction in mocking you in the face after salvaging one game from a four game series -- barely avoiding being swept by "your minor league team." Sox fan literally BOWS DOWN to Manny Ramirez when he looks up to his adoring followers. Sox fan sits in your season-ticket seat and claims in Red Sox Nation everything is general admission.

3. They are fans of a team with such an astronomical payroll that it is six times your team's. This is the equivalent of driving your 1998 Jetta with 157,000 miles on it and having a dude pull up next to you in his Maybach he bought with money handed down to him by his dead grandmother. "Your car sucks," Sox fan says.

4. They are unable to appreciate the value of free pizza. One strikeout away from the third ten-K game of the series, they found themselves, even with a seven-run lead in the ninth, incapable of cheering for Travis Harper to throw a strikeout. They see no problem with running up the score and humiliating anyone.

5. They live in the Tampa Bay area, many for 20 years or more, and are still incapable of supporting the team that is an economic focus for a lot of activity in Pinellas and Hillsborough counties. They cling to their past so tightly you expect them to still wear Underoos, and some do. This is my main point of contention with Red Sox fan. "Oh, I was born and raised a Sox fan," they say. That's fantastic. But that's your past. As I told Sox fan at the Hangout on Wednesday night, angry as he watched highlights of the drubbing we gave them that evening, "You live in Tampa Bay! You should support the home team!" He replied, "But the Sox are my past, man. My history." "Yes, your PAST," I retorted. "Do you still beat off to pictures of your high school girlfriend?" ... to which he had to be restrained and I ran into the other room giggling.

Yet there is one interesting characteristic of Sox fan -- at least as far as female Sox fan goes.

They are hot.

It didn't escape me the last time I was in Boston that Beantown's women are smokin', but not every Bostonian is a Red Sox fan, only the vast majority. And I'm not even sure that all the Sox fans in the Bay area are from New England, but it is consistent that if I see a woman in Red Sox gear, she is the kind I would buy a beer for at the bar and then have her walk away and give it to her brother, like in that Heineken spot.

So last night was another trip to the Trop, in my increasingly-dirty Carl Crawford jersey and dedicated to not eating any hot dogs for once. As usual, I snag my section 145 ticket, and seeing as how my section was so predominantly Raysian on Tuesday, I predicted the same for Thursday.

Instead, I was in a Red sea.

Sox fans in front of me. Sox fans behind. To my left. To my right. In fact, there were Sox fans IN MY SEAT and I sat down next to them, calmly telling the dude that I didn't mind him sitting in my seat but that if whomever had the seat *I* was in came calling, I'd have to kick him out.

As it turned out, seat-stealer and his crew were the only non-obnoxious Sox fans in the section. The girl next to me, curiously decked out in a yellow halter dress, seemed to be barely a baseball fan at all -- and was as good looking as anyone I've ever seen at a Rays game. Of course, she was seat-stealer's girlfriend, and I spent most of the game talking to her as if she were completely single. A senior business major at Wellsley, she was a native Floridian and thus visiting Red Sox nation on a Miami passport. That explained the unfamiliarity and the "do baseball games go into overtime?" questions. The four were in town on vacation, had been drinking all day, and were overall fun and low-key. I'm not even sure they were real Sox fans, because they didn't really exhibit any of the typical characteristics.

Meanwhile, there are more gorgeous women in Red Sox gear everywhere. I wonder if I really could hit on a Red Sox fan. It was hard enough for me to deal with the Yankee fan I did the dating dance with earlier this year -- could I handle it? What's wrong with me, that I'm finding such obviously incompatible women attractive?

The dissonance is enough to break glass.

National Geographic presents this photo of a highly endangered species: unobnoxious Red Sox fan.

This is essay #6 in an ill-fated "30 in 30" campaign.

Apple pie was sorely lacking | I love the Rays

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To perform my patriotic duty as an American, I elected to spend my Independence Day celebrating the fine American traditions of baseball, hot dogs, and shooting stuff into orbit. That much of my day would be spent in my German automobile or that 46 minutes would be spent watching Germany and Italy kick a ball around is no consequence.

After stopping by my new place in Clearwater, I rode the MBR (that's McMullen-Booth Road, not master boot record) to St. Petersburg, stopping (with a few other cars) in a Lowe's parking lot to see if I might watch my first live shuttle launch. Except for a tiny arcing plume of smoke, that might not even have been the shuttle, I didn't see much... clouds everywhere. Oh well, I... sort of saw a shuttle launch. I hurried to the Trop, where a WDAE tailgater was in action, snagged a third-row left-field ticket (because Right Field Sucks) and headed into the Brewhouse to watch the first half of Italy vs. Germany. I ended up standing next to local sports talk guru Steve "Big Dog" Duemig -- a guy I rather loathe but listen to daily anyway. I do like his appreciation for soccer, though, and we chatted a bit during the game.

I like going to major league games on special days -- Memorial Day, Opening Day, or the 4th of July. The festivities are a little more... festive. This day was no different, with mascot Raymond in an Uncle Sam outfit, a Jumbotron speech from our esteemed President of the United States, a mumbled statement from Commissioner Bud Selig in which he managed to not curse the name of Jose Canseco, and a cool tribute to our airmen at MacDill Air Force Base. Jorge Cantu appears several times in the Pledge of Allegiance bit; did he become an American citizen at some point? He played for Mexico in the WBC.

See the video

The game started, and I realized that while in the crowd of 21,000 Red Sox Nation was in full force, my section of seats was solidly in Rays gear. Killer. After a few innings, a Sox fan who vaguely resembled my high school buddy Dave Christlieb started putting on a Superman costume. He didn't have a phone booth, and needed help from his friends putting it on, but eventually he found a way to strut his stuff.

See the video

Casey Fossum was on fire, striking out eight in five innings of work. The family next to me, a seven-year-old with his parents, got up during the fourth to get food. When they returned, I discovered an abomination.

See, I love the new Rays ownership, and they've made $10 million in changes to Tropicana Field to make it a more pleasurable place to watch a game. However, they've made one change that I find almost intolerable: they've changed the old Hebrew National brown mustard to the more common French's yellow. Like any Cleveland Indians fan, I'm a mustard snob, and believe that mustard comes in one color: baby-puke brown. Yet mustard is mustard, in a lot of ways, and I deal with it. A dog at the game is a dog at the game, and I dutifully buy one loaded with kraut and French's every game I attend.

The family returned and I found the child had not brown Bertman's mustard or even yellow French's but... *gasp* catsup on his hot dog.

I looked at the hot dog, then at the boy who was eager to tear into it.

"Son, why do you have catsup on your hot dog," I asked.
"I like catsup," he replied.
"Don't you know you put mustard on a hot dog?" I inquired.
The boy's mom intervened. "Catsup is a perfectly fine condiment for hot dogs," she explained.
"You, ma'am, are a bad parent," I answered, laughing, and turned back to the other 20-somethings in my row.

Alas, no video for that interaction.

The best part of the evening was the extended Maddon shift. If you haven't been watching Baseball Tonight lately, Rays manager Joe Maddon shifts the infield every time David Ortiz bats for the Red Sox. My increasingly-drunken left field crew started calling it the "Sloppy Shift." 3B Aubrey Huff goes to deep left field, SS Julio Lugo sits in very short straightaway center, 2B Jorge Cantu heads to middle-right, 1B Ty Wigginton to short right, and LF Carl Crawford in left-center. Or just watch the video where Ortiz finds himself entirely unable to get a hit even with 50% of the field completely empty. Yeah, that's me screaming on the video.

Okay, I lied. The best part of the evening was telling a woman she was a bad parent for letting her child put catsup on a hot dog. Oh, and the fact that we beat the Red Sox for the second night in a row. That was nice, too.

the full picture gallery

It's another Independence Day.
Time for fireworks,
And sparklers,
And parades.
But my favorite part of every July 4
Is that show that happens
Way up in New York.
At Coney Island,
Nathan's Hot Dog stand,
A competition few would understand.
Some are skinny, but most of them
Are fat.
Eatin' hot dogs
In twelve minutes flat.

But then I saw this girl
Who really rocked my world
100 pounds.
You would not believe,
Yeah, it would make you heave.

She gobbled 37.

She's the manager
Of a Jersey Burger King.
I bet that she could eat anything.
Her jaw can unhinge like a mighty snake,
I wonder how much of mine she can take.

I wish she was my queen.
Her talents are obscene,
How much sausage she can swallow.
But you would not believe,
Yeah, it would make you heave.

She gobbled 37.

Well we all should have
So much luck,
To have a gal so skilled
At the throat f... sex.
There's only thing about her
That's the pits:
Those hot dogs don't do nothing
For her tits.

Yeah, you would not believe.
I bet that it would make you heave.

She gobbled 37.

Download it in mp3 or AAC

About to head out to watch another Rays win over the BoSox (did you see the Beantowners after last night's huge two-hit shutout by Kid K? Despondent!) but wanted to provide you one last patriotic moment, courtesy a random 1980's Japanese TV show. Huey Lewis and the News are still the best band ever. I love the dude on the left. His sunglasses are so Back To The Future part II.


Have a great day, y'all!

With a few exceptions, I hate contemporary rap music. I hesitate to use the word "music," considering it more along the lines of noise created by unintelligent thugs. I come from a much stronger hip-hop background than any of my friends, who refuse to listen to the genre on face. My favorite record of 2004, The Perceptionists' Black Dialogue, is hip-hop, and I have dozens of rap and R&B records in my CD case. Yet the music I listened to in the mid-90s is gone, and the music I listen to now isn't mainstream. It's unfortunate pop music went in this direction, but the truth of the matter is that contemporary rap promotes murder, drug use, and the abuse of women. That's not a generalization; after all, let's sample some of the lyrics from the #1 song on Billboard's R & B and Rap charts, "It's Goin' Down" by Yung Joc.

Catch me in the hood posted at the sto
Pistol in my lap on the phone countin dough

I suppose you could argue his dough was acquired while in the legitimate job as store security guard.

Bitches in the back
Black beamer coups
Girls like girls time to recruit

It's not nice to call women "bitches," or to make them sit in the back of two-door cars. Do you know how hard it is to climb in back of a coupe while wearing heels? Do you? (I don't, so I really am curious to know.)

I ride real slow no need to speed
I keep my hands clean cuz I never touch dope

Here we go aga... wha? You mean he's serving as a traffic-law-abiding, anti-drug role model? Maybe I should rethink my position on contemporary rap. It sounds like Joc doesn't affiliate himself with the kind of crowds that suggest to young Americans that brazenly shooting people is okay.

Block/Bad Boy Entertainment rapper Yung Joc appeared on an Atlanta radio station Wednesday (May 3) to set the record straight regarding a recent shooting that left one member of Atlanta rapper T.I.’s entourage dead and three others wounded. [...] Gunfire was exchanged as two dark SUV’s chased the rapper’s van on Interstate 75, where the van blew a tire and came to a stop. Johnson was killed, while two members of the rapper’s entourage suffered minor wounds. One woman remains hospitalized.

Erm... whoops.

Anyway, this all has a point, because last night up in Gainesville, Tampa rapper Plies and his entourage whipped out handguns and fired into the audience during a show. Why? Let's go to the story.


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    This page is an archive of entries from July 2006 listed from newest to oldest.

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