Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Victory Parade: DANCE! DANCE! DANCE!

Big notes post coming later this week. For now, enjoy the parade galleries and the utter insanity of our closer.

Sunday, October 28, 2007


Any Yankee fan knows the danger of letting a team down 0-3 linger. As Manny Ramirez said, "We don't want to go eating the cake before your birthday." Birthday? Your? Point received, but let tonight be a funeral. Insert classic cold beatdown track on the jukebox:

Thursday, October 25, 2007

WORLD SERIES GAME ONE: Rocks-a-tumblin'

A guide to landslides above. Writing to come when there's actual baseball to write of.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

(a knuckleball continues spinning and the jukebox plays)

Barkeep here. Just putting two songs for the jukebox and breaking them down a bit. The Breaks is a great way to actually dig for samples if you choose to.

1. Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians, "What I Am"

Thanks to UMG for actually making this video available. This song got too big for its own good when I was seven or so watching MuchMusic. Y'know, the Canadian music channel?

Lemme just put it this way. J and the Family Roam was in Ecuador then. I loved this song. Then I heard "Slow Down" by Brand Nubian about 15 years later and loved that too.

2. Crooklyn Dodgers (Original Squad), "Crooklyn"

Loose and beautiful track by three amazing emcees...if only for one track. An all-star team that actually is in continual rotation with a hook placed in between them.

Q-Tip of A Tribe Called Quest is a great producer. The song's about Brooklyn of that moment (1994) and of a different time (the 1970s, which Crooklyn was about).

Beautiful samples to my ear here include a championship call (Brooklyn wins! Brooklyn wins!) and the hard-ass DJ Premier/Guru collaboration "The Place Where We Dwell." (Never taking shorts 'cuz Crooklyn's the borough.)

And now let's switch to the walking headphones. G'day.

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

(mo speaks for a minute.)

Hey. Proprietor speaking. We're cleaning up this place. Had to send the barkeeper home; he's working too hard on his other nine jobs. Just catch up for awhile. Try the jukebox and don't even watch this guy's hands. I had hands like that. They build buildings now. Good night.

Sunday, October 7, 2007

WEEKEND POST-GAME: First we cook, then we chill.

Alright. Nice Sunday. Ate at Joe's, wandered and discovered that if "Williamsburg" isn't dying, it's at least being pushed further and further South. Drank a couple beers here as the Angels hung tight and then got absolutely manhandled. Enjoyed the company of an Ozzie Sox fan among others. Wrote a couple rewritten lyrics.

gooooodbye anaheim angels...
I can't hang a name on you...
when it changes every new day...
I'm not gonna miss you...

Took the train. Heard via cell phone by field reporter Nay Ratzoo, #3 Marmaduke Fan in the world, that Clemens was down, Clemens was down, and Trot hit a homerun. Good.

(To my field reporter: give me a better name than what I just spat out there. Any name.)

Saw a brilliant show by a brave woman.

Passed by Slainte and saw that the Yankees were...ahead? Whatever. No, not whatever. Good. May as well see if anyone knows how this happened. Explained a bit of baseball to a dude from the U.K. because he asked me. Apparently I know more about cricket than I thought.

(Hello, across the pond: Jen, Dan, and Lil' E.)

Ordered a club soda just to be a customer. talked a bit of Chicago with some Bears fans, talked a bit of...business? with Packers fans. Fun.

Far as the [New York Highlanders] versus the [Cleveland Spiders], I have three words for you. Blood, blood, blood.

I'm cooked, now I chill.

And then I listen to this. Gorgeous song by a brave man composed as he lay dying, mainly just with some records, samples of which may never have cleared to my knowledge. Played by a Korean punk-rock band. I have been over this before. Wow. Wow. Wow.

Then I sleep. Bar's closed on "Columbus" Day. Um, enjoy it. But stare at this a minute and think. I'd love to know what you think, because...zzzzzz....


Yes, the National League still has great players in it. Yes, I'm supposed to enjoy...what am I doing here?

I don't care. St. Louis was a good team (yes, they caught a young, rusty team on too much rest at just the right time...I feel for you DJ Canoli) ...but... I still don't care.

Cubs. Done.

Phillies. Done.

Rockies. (My sentimental favorite...the team name was an NHL team once too.,..try Uni Watch on the sidebar) Still Alive.

Two sweeps. Great. Fuck it.

I really like the designated hitter, and I also enjoyed David Ortiz playing a good enough 1B in the 2004 World Series.) Oh, and remember Reggie Jefferson? Liked that guy too. Boss Vaughn rarely DHed.

And I'm a designated hitter. (Or at least this article got me a job at Air America Radio...that network had no real plan though.)

This ain't no threat. But hey, take it personal:

(DJ Premier is spinning at the Knitting Factory tonight, New York beat junkies...I'm not going because I have to go to a more personal show...and God, I hope she's healthy and putting the CAN in CANcer.)

Saturday, October 6, 2007

ALDS GAME 2 POST-GAME: Hey, that's just [ You/me/Manny Ramirez] being [You/me/Manny Ramirez]

For the record, ESPN.com and your headline writer, the bugs did not simply help the Cleveland Indians win last night. It was a tight, tight game. Andy Pettite is both good and lucky. Fausto Carmona wasn't enjoying the eighth plague either, but he went Nine and gave up ONE run. As a dear Yankee fan friend of mine (of ten years...man, I'm getting old) said as I was watching that game at his place, probably not trying to be that funny:

"Fausto Carmona is the fucking Lord of the Flies!"

And yeah, Joba Chamberlain is not a golden god so be careful how you mythologize anyone. Personally, one of the most awful moments in my life, even in the moment, was when someone I later found out was younger than me said I was wayyyy cool. I was actually feeling pretty down. I hope you're doing alright, John, wherever you may be.

Manny Ramirez got something off his chest last night, especially
the play where his hat fell off and he flopped around and turned what could have been an out into a double, if we had Coco Crisp playing in every outfield position. We also wouldn't score any runs if we had Coco Crisp playing every outfield position.

Look at this interview with Manny Ramirez and remember it's his first interview with any media this year. He is really emotional. I look forward to his swing now that he can finally say, "Fuck it." See ball, see if ball is a strike, attempt to hit ball. You know, in a couple Seconds. Try it sometime.

(No, seriously, try it right here. It's fun, but I sure suck at it. If not, just visit the San Francisco Exploratorium sometime, no matter what age you are.)

And now for an attempted monologue.

Manny Ramirez, at the plate. It isn't any particular game. This is his internal monologue.


I like my hair. I like my hair. I'm not cutting it. My hat fell off. Whatever. Fuck you, you paid me. Cleveland, oh, I should have stayed in...Cleveland was nice, but..

Ball goes straight down the middle of the strike zone for a strike.

Was that The pitch? Maybe. No. Doesn't mattter. No. Focus. Be nice to hit a pitch, but....

Good slider. Manny doesn't swing as it goes out of the zone.

Not that pitch.

Manny breathes.

Fastball, slider, and...what's next? Fastball's an okay guess. Go with it.

A changeup is thrown. Manny barely hits it foul...it floats, but it goes into the seats.

This guy is good. He isn't that good. But he's good. Count's 1-2. Checka 1-2. Ha ha ha. Okay, focus.

Fastball, high, Manny checks his swing. Or does he?


Catcher appeals to first. Umpire takes a second, and then says, no, he did not swing. Manny sighs.

Phew. High fastball, eh? Not a bad idea, Miguel, but...something's going on behind there. I watched some film of this guy. Young. Very young. Cuba? No...D.R., baby. The glasses. What's behind the eyes? He's more frightened of me than I am of him. I could walk. I could hit. Take a short swing? Of course. All of my swings are short. Where's the pitch going to be? Inside? Okay.

Inside fastball. It nearly hits him. Manny takes a second longer than he should to glare at the mound because it wasn't that close to hitting him.

Asshole. Fuck your mother. (Untranslation: Chinga tu madre, cabron) No, wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. He's throwing a fastball now. I think he actually has some...no...I don't know what he's going to throw. It is still a game, even if it's no longer just a game. Just wait. Just wait. Just wait.

Outside fastball. Not as outside as intended, however. Manny CRUSHES it to right. He just knows. He just stands there. He half-smiles, half sighs.

Hey! Not bad!

P.S: Fuck yeah. One win to go.

Bar's closed until at least Monday, maybe Tuesday if I can somehow get the day off. Drink water. I'm not hungover, yet that's what I'm doing right...after....this.

Friday, October 5, 2007


Any Angels fans out there? I've got a free appletini for you, although I think Boss Vaughn is gonna be a little angry when he sees the invoices this month. (About the alcohol type, not the Angels. They treated him well; Duquette didn't. And if you do your research just bear in mind that flavored alcohol will make you kinda ill tomorrow.

Jinx, jinx...jinx? (Rolls eyes, goes to lunch.)

Thursday, October 4, 2007

(untitled john sterling quote)

"It has to do with starting pitching for the most part." --The Sterlino

Free well whiskey for any Yankees fan not wearing anything like this:

Sorry, we have rules here.


Not too much today. Maybe something to come on whatever Sterling says about "Thaaaaa New York Yankeeesss" tonight. I'm trying to keep my job. Simple as that.

But I'll let you in on a couple things.

1) I'm going to try very hard to root for the Yankees throughout this. I cannot explain this to my Bostonian readers yet (and am not even trying to touch Maine yet...beautiful place, but yeah, I was there when there was sun) and this is an EXPERIMENT. I'll see if I can find a New York Giants hat. It's as close as I can come to betrayal through writing instead of...I don't even want to know.

Look, I even have a friend in the NYPD now. For me that is...difficult.

Alright. Time to recycle from the ol' blog. Gary Sheffield and Tim McCarver in an interview that has never happened.

I respect Sheff yet never, ever want to meet him or have him on our team, because I remember when I thought Fenway could become Jurassic Park.

2a) Sidebar. Jock Bio. Sheffield. Wow.


Lights up on Tim McCarver, by himself, as he probably should be. He's coherent, but he is drinking the Yankee Kool-Aid.

Gary Sheffield has a pair of the fastest hands in the game. So fast, in fact, that Gary says when he watches film of himself, he’s surprised himself.

Change the scene. We see McCarver interviewing Sheffield, pre-recorded.

GARY SHEFFIELD (as a Yankee)
When I watch the game films of my at-bats, y’know, and I see how fast I get my hands through the zone, y’know, it’s surprising, yeah. I mean, they whip through the zone. I’m not thinking about how fast my hands move when I’m at the plate, I’m just trying to hit the pitch. But my hands, y’know, they just move so…elegantly. Like two little ballerinas attached to my wrists. Like two cheetahs grafted to my elbows.

And then, when I watch my homeruns, y’know, on the game films, well, I don’t really get to admire my homeruns in the game. I’m just trying to not disrespect the sanctity of the game, just round the bases and let the crowd let me hear it. But the motion of those moon shots, y’know, it’s like watching the Eagle land. It’s like watching the World Trade Center towers fall…but, y’know, good. Those 450-foot shots are as much a part of American history as any shot in World War II. But I’m not aware of that, except, y’know, when I watch the film.

And sometimes I just look at myself in the mirror, and y’know, I don’t get to look at myself as much as, say, my wife, or the fans, or those who watch me on TV. I unfortunately have this condition that makes it impossible for me to, like, turn my eyeballs back upon myself and, like, admire my own countenance? But then, sometimes, I’m lucky enough to see my own image reflected, in a mirror or a similar reflecting surface. And, man, I really am a handsome man. My face could be as timeless as Cary Grant’s, really. Y’know, most of the time, I’m just going about my business, not thinking about the fact that every woman I pass is getting incredibly moist at just a quick glance at me. So, yeah, of course, that’s a surprise. Every day is a pleasant surprise. I love being me. I never know what new greatness I’ll find out about myself tomorrow. Me: it’s the best.

Back to McCarver, on his own, watching this film. Realizing...oh dear God I think I liked announcing for the Mets after all.

Smarter men than me would have nothing to say either. Harry Carey, even. This…was Tim McCarver.

(3?) Yeah, I said 9/11, but hey, this guy is truly exploiting it and could be elected President.

I'm aware this could be offensive to many. I believe in catharsis. The play I was blessed to have put up here was about 9/11 and was inspired by THIS. Deb Margolin tried to teach me some nerve and succeeded.

Blah blah blah. Here's the dick joke I promised. Kinda.

Postgame, Game 1: Strictly Business.

If you really wanna get down, well, look up. I dunno, man. I'm ecstatic but there's a lot going on right now with me, almost all of it good. But...

Anyone know the song "Overjoyed" by Stevie Wonder. I like that song, and yet I'm listening to The Secret Life Of Plants right now, a challenging and possibly awful record right now. Thank God you meddling kids didn't buy this when I was chilling (or attempting to) and selling some stuff I thought I could live without on Bedford Ave with my friend Harry. Some girl named Madox (Or...wait...Maddox? I hope it wasn't the latter.) took pictures of me thinking I might fit into...I dunno, some magazine I'd regret later. It didn't happen, and the money would have been nice, but I'm pretty average looking to myself, and imma go bald soon enough. Whatever, I was desperate (for $$, mainly) and it was flattery. Hope someone out there is enjoying "17 Days" right now, because I would love to flip that 45 on 33 right now.

Beckett was masterful.

Coco made a few plays you didn't even notice. Someone make this man a cereal already.

Ellsbury was nicely deployed. Someone buy Tito Francona a shot of this if he needs one after Friday...not that you'll see him around Boston. One of these days Jim, who sent me a genuinely...great? Globe piece on Mike Lowell and the shit he's been through, will set me straight on Boston, a place I love and fear and just don't know very well.

You know where I'm from if you've been following this thing from the start. And you haven't. (Unless you're Josh Wilker, I guess.) Me and Mo, man. Norwalk, CT. The Martime Center is pretty close to where I was born. Pretty shiny aquarium.

I'm tired. This doesn't all make sense to anyone but me, but this is ten minutes of writing and linking, roughly. I didn't mean to end up having just gotten home at this hour, but Erik Marcisak means more to me than I can say, so I stayed in the bar and stuck to two beers. Er, and a vodka Rick Younger bought me. I don't like vodka that much, but clear is better than brown as far as water goes, and a shark on whiskey is mighty risky:

And one more thing. Mets fans, seriously...

The next imaginary round is on me.


Wednesday, October 3, 2007

PREGAME, GAME 1 ALDS: So nervous that I'm writing about...Keith Foulke?

I hate and love five game series.

They've been good to us before. We've been very blessed...

(The cosmic slop that was Game 3 of the 2003 ALDS versus the A's, 1986 versus the Angels.)

...and somewhat cursed...

(Actually...wait. The 2005 Red Sox were a paper tiger...we scored runs, but look at that pitching staff. And for God's sake, Boston, Keith Foulke gave you his knees for our glory. And his barely-adequate fastball. An inadequate fastball= no changeup.)

(Even Yankees fans are still trying to figure it out this changeup. I love Manny, but Keith Foulke is forever my World Series MVP.)

(So what if he insulted you, Johnny Burger King? Can you imagine talking to that much media in that small a clubhouse having blown a three-run lead, in a game an AL East Pennant-hungry team didn't actually have to win? I've got no game in particular in mind, so I'll leave it to the reader(s?): You can look it up.)

(And Burger King is pretty good! Call me Michael McDonald's and I'll get angry, but...wait, Michael McDonald is awesome too!)

Back to the subject I'm apparently dodging...we seem to own the Angels lately, but Kelvim Escobar also seems to have figured it out. Game 2 is everything to me because like I said yesterday, I don't shoot craps. But hey, 100 mil plus is already on the line. And he did this...

...at roughly the age when...well, let's just say I thought I was inhaling, but wasn't, and that was probably good. No matter how Daisuke works out, I'm sympathetic to wasted money. Er, not that college was that...um... Dude, I know some Dante! (And Dante. I was Silent Bob.)

I will have a drink or two with my game, at Slainte or somewhere nearby, but I'll pay the extra buck and make sure it tastes good. Probably just plain ol' brew. I don't wanna overdo it, homes.

Hope for the best and expect the worst, Sox Nation. What more can we do?

Tuesday, October 2, 2007

Don't talk! EAT!

Man, this was supposed to be my Sunday...sorta. No baseball equals sleep, unless I start thinking of how much I loathe genuine gambling (where the house wins a LOT) as opposed to poker (California says so, goddamnit), and the fact that, well, in game 2, we are rolling the dice.

(Far as the picture above and what's going on with MTV there...your guess is better than mine, 'cause I ain't making one.)

Um...I'm rambling. And I'm addicted to this labor of love...for better or worse, fall hasn't been this good since '04, and in '04, the Red Sox were everything to me. All I wanted to do was give you a gift. The gift of savage wit.

I said it before, I'll say it again, because I am sacrilucious. Patton Oswalt is god.

Good night, you princes of New England.

Game 163: And now I have an NL team to root for.

Look, I don't know if Matt Holliday was safe or not, and I don't think you do either. All I know is that was an awesome game, and I surely am happy I peeked at the TV at The Turkey's Nest before I went home. How happy?

That happy.

I'm also more tired than "Chicken Noodle Soup" is. Bar's closed tomorrow, kids.

Um, tomorrow being...today? Whatever. It's Bedtime for Bonzo.

Monday, October 1, 2007

Mets hangover, day two of...? (Or: keep on keeping on. A ramble in video form.)

Okay, when I say "hangover," it isn't Mets-related. Nor alcohol. It's loss of sleep. God only knows why...I may well have lost the ability to sleep until noon (at least without that other hangover awaiting me at the end...just thinking of that makes me wonder if I will ever get Sparked), or maybe it was just a certain weight I was carrying. When I started in April, it exploded out of my head like motherfucking Athena. Then it didn't. Then I put my chin to the whetstone, though it hurt. Couldn't keep Running Away:

I'm not talking about this blog, which was born, like me, in March. I'm talking about a Labor of love...and maybe bile. It's called New Haven and the Problem Of Change In The American City, a sad-eyed but beloved 97-page baby boy. Four full-length plays down, hopefully more to come. So I'm happy.

But goddamn am I tired:

Man. I'd have a cigarette if I hadn't reformed...most of the time. Do any of you work in Midtown and still smoke cigarettes? I swear, I'll beatbox for a Camel. Newports fuck with my throat a little much for that.

This isn't having anything to do with the Mets. But it is the blues, and y'all know that well.

But you can't lose your job over it, like I nearly did in fall 2003.

Q: Why was I allowed to keep my job after stumbling in one day at 10:30 smelling like Ballatine Ale? (The XXX on those cans isn't a joke, kids.)
A: It was a barely-paid internship. And I'm damn lucky.

Do you get to work with headphones on? Good. I offer you all the salvation I can. If there is a heaven, J Dilla is there. But this isn't a gentle wake up, so do NOT download "Workinonit" from me (it's limited...click it now) if you just want to wallow.

Far as Illadelph goes...if you guys can take a loss to the Sox in the World Series, I wish you good luck getting there. I love Tom Gordon as much as one fictional girl, even if he's probably in his last days.

Oh, one more thing. This is an awful song that George Foster put together in a blatant reach for dough, done in classic '86 Mets arrogance fashion (that is to say, it was recorded in MARCH). I've been looking for it ever since I read (and loved) The Bad Guys Won. My sincerest thanks to www.hiphopmusic.com.

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