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.

LOSS 9,987: You poor, poor bastards.

Good series against Arizona, boring series with Colorado approaching (in anticipatory terms, as interleague continues to unjustify its value), but I'd like to focus on another team today, and another city. The city is Philadelphia, the team, the Phillies. The approaching event: loss #10,000.



The Phillies are on the verge of a historical level of suck, much like our President is and will be by January 2009. But while our president only has eight years to send the country into the suck, the Phillies have had over 100 years to suck, and were it not for that one solitary championship season, the dread would be unimaginable...as it is, the Marlins have more championships than the Phillies in about 1/10 of the time. They've had players like these on some ignonimous, and most infamously, blew a 6.5 game lead with 12 games to go in 1964. That's beyond the Sox's 1978, and to even compare them is like comparing losing a lot of weight on a three-month Atkins diet versus doing the same thing in a couple weeks, with stomach stapling and Dexatrim.



Oh, Philadelphia. The tourist attractions are psuedo-1776, the core hasn't changed since 1976. A city epitomized in its famous cheesesteak, a food one craves, then eats half of and starts feeling ill, then eats the rest of and feels nothing but heartburn, heartache, and regret. No championships for over 20 years will make you do stuff like booing Santa Claus.

The Phillies should be celebrated...for being around a very long time, and ultimately running the A's out of town, sorta. Philadelphia's a nice place, although it's easy to make fun of.



Philadelphia: It ain't Cleveland. But that William Penn (statue) sure is a vindictive sum' bitch.