I now know why my parents decided to drive everywhere when we were kids- the easy answer would be “economical” reasons…nope I’d say its because they raised flight risks. I, for one, am a fuckin flight risk to myself. I’m like that pig who falls off the slaughter line, only to squirm away right before being delivered to his maker; I am all over the fuckin place. Are they made to feel like I’m being herded to my slaughter? Cause these “moon walkers'” lazily guiding me along my way? All I need is a chopping block at the end and I'll oink. Who are all these people and where the fuck is everyone going on a Thursday?! Does anyone work a full week anymore? (myself included) The airport is one giant panic attack waiting to happen for me, and I keep fanning the flame by buying more and more coffee (mmm frappes…) At this point I’m damn near shaking as I thumb the keys, waiting at the terminal. Airports are by far the closest we’ve come to an Orwellian society- “yes faceless voice over the loud speaker, I will oblige…Walk, sit, stay, board” That or else it’s a free man’s prison- obey the rules, maintain eye contact to prove dominance, biggest have free reign, security guards, must follow orders, etc..Cause I def mean mug the shit outta everyone! Esp if youre the douche with your Bluetooth attached to your blackberry talking to some phony on the other end with your 40 year old wife dressed head to toe in “pink” clothing- bitch you're forty, they made that for 15 year olds! Pink’s not helping those damn wrinkles or your sagging boob’s…(that’d be victoria secret) I now know why rappers make songs “last real nigga” alive- life is a game of pretending. Pretending you’re happy, pretending you’re important, pretending you’re talking to someone, pretending you’re reading, pretending you’re interested….I wonder what the success rate is for guys who spit game at the airport? What’s the success rate look like, 0.05%? And that’s for head, I'd say no more than 2% for full on penetration. Either way, it's gotta be microscopic, tho I might bump it up to 10 percent given the amount of women dressed to impress (I'm looking at you, tits hanging out of your lacey black bra) Do airports just feed peoples fantasies about “anonymous sex”? Why again am I thinking of this? (Attention deficit disorder you have your poster child) I hate the small talk that happens in airports (or any sizable social gathering for that matter) Some 40 year old, outta shape, bluetoothed dude's rocking J's- I'm talking the Jordan 11's, the sickest pair (hands down)..So you know I give dude a compliment, let him know “nice shoes man (resisted the urge to drop a “bro”,somehow) He then forces awkward compliment about my “sweet” computer background,, which happens to be the factory background, which while nice, is lame as shit...Right then, I gave up on airport conversation. Oh Christ, international guy next to me, you didn't have fuckin leukemia...”the kind where you only have 1% chance to live”...dude you're prematurely balding, you didn't have leukemia..Now he's talking about some doctor using witchcraft to cure cancer..is it a crime to smash his accented face against the linoleum? I feel like the courts should have a douche rating to crimes- “your honor, he was lying about having a terminal disease to impress a old bag of bones with 3 year old botox and a well, a cute girl- he rates a 9 on the douchemeter” Judge: “I'll allow it”...He just said the witchcraft”left him hung as a horse..Ha Ha Ha” (insert annoying fake laugh) I hope you go home with the bigger older lady and you waft the sweet smell of mothball's as you excitedly munch rug you uber-douche.. Is that the game here? Make up outlandish, attention stealing lies that you confidently pass off to random strangers? Amtrak I heart you right now...
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
This is a cruel fucking joke; McDonalds, you fucking corporate suits and you're damn need for login information that causes the internet to crash. Here I sit, surrounded by All-American fat asses, hoping that my internet will work. And while my computer currently registers that I have a five bar wireless connection, I sit , dumb founded as to why I can't view anything, stuck in a perpetual state of loading, the depths of internet hell. I contemplate my next move to reacquaint myself with my friend, the internet, but nothing, just blank white and the hope that we may meet again. Is this what heroin withdrawal feels like? I can suddenly sympathize. I wonder how my fantasy baseball team did this week. Almost certainly a loss, with my luck. Truly sad that this is my first worry when it comes to being cut off from the connected world. I feel like more of a creep as I analyze when the Waynesburg high school cheerleading night is at this current McDonalds (September 2nd!!!!) They have a coach, right? She had to be a former cheerleader (that’s at least my story to the eventual authorities) and given that I'm cruising around in a conversion vehicle/rape/child molester van; I'm almost certain people will think I'm going to ask for help loading a rug into my van to take to my lair and force my victim to lather themselves in lotion. (that last part gave the reference away)..Fuck me, I suppose I'll drown my sorrows in my Frappe and get on with my miserably internet-free existence.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
I've got a massive headache. Which doesn't bod well for my overall well-being, seeing as I had one of those “what the fuck” moments today. It started when I accompanied my mom to a benefit that a committee she's a member of put on at a supposed mansion in town. Now Carbondale has no real mansions; this is a house with a big ass lawn, that a bunch of old people, looking at the neighborhood of run-down houses, decided this one must be worth something to someone. No one apparently alerted these people of the housing market crash; there's a community band (compromised of old and young mind you) playing for family and friends. All of probably 30 (max). ..the band had about as many members as fans, so its was truly rather sad. So while accompanying my mother, in my standard wife beater, back wards cubs hat and clear blue sunglasses (Tooltown population 1), I needless to say brought all the class to this little mixer. While zoning in and out listening to my mother and several older ladies discuss/babble about the finer points of being a grandmother, my mom introduced me to a little 4th grader, Max who was out wandering around, off in his own, innocent world. She then let me know that he too “was” a twin. At first, given the fact I was paying absolutely no attention to anything other than to how old the one decent looking Asian broad in attendance was (nice to meet you, Woody Allen!) I let it go over my head. “Oh he was a twin, I suppose I was to before he moved” I thought, which at the time and even now in writing makes no sense and further proves that I am, in fact, a space cadet. Finally, after pondering what my equivalent to still playing in a “community band” when I'm 60 is (the image of me wearing long black socks, eye glare and batting gloves while reeking of bengay/the slow decaying of aging immediately came to mind) I finally returned to the planet earth, and hickory lodge. “He was a twin?” I asked. My mom, who was enjoying the shade of me following her around like I too was 5, “His twin just complained about a headache...and he died a year later.” Hence the what the fuck. Apparently the poor kid was diagnosed with a brain tumor at 4, and died when he was 5. And so now you see why I'm fretting over a headache. He just complained about a headache? So is my headache reason to complain?? I mean I've tried to cut out my once habits of excessively complaining/bitching/moaning/grousing over every little potential for injury, but does this give me a legitimate reason? HE WAS A TWINNER! I'M A TWINNER! IS IT A SIGN?! Where are crop circles when I need'em or a piss stain that resembles the virgin mary. I need a sign (that doesn't involve me crippling over or blacking out).
Saturday, July 24, 2010
I have a new found fascination with an American president(no homo); let me rephrase that, I am fascinated with a president's failures. That president is one George Walker Bush, better known as Dubya. Having now read two (whole) books (without pictures :( ) about the presidency of Dubya, I've come to realize exactly why the story fascinates me so greatly. It's truly a story of karma; how in the end the chickens will always come home to roost, what goes around truly comes back around. Karma, when seen in it's purest of forms, gives me hope. (somewhat pathetically) I feel like my good deeds or good intentions will be repaid back to me, the opposite of course being true as well. And the story of Dubya's rise and fall from grace has all that interwoven within it, which makes it so damn compelling. In 2000, when Dubya and Al (I won an oscar dammit) Gore were in a dead heat for who was going to take Florida, and thus the presidential election, Herbert Walker Bush (the 41st) called in every favor he had left. The Bush Dynasty was going to live on, at first with the oldest son Dubya, then in 2008 with Jeb. They even made Jeb, the Governor of Florida and (at that point) a potential presidential candidate in his own right, come to bat for them. Between the H.W. Bush appointed justices that populated the supreme court (2 of 9, while 7 total leaned right) and Jeb, the Bush's were able to rig an election in their favor and take the presidency by force. Thus beginning what would in hindsight be the most unsuccessful and highly regarded as the worst two time presidency in American History. So bad in fact, that when it was all said and done, the Republicans were left to roll out a woman for Vice President with no real/valid political experience and minimal sex appeal (if having an unstoppable desire to hate fuck her is in fact considered “sex appeal”) to lose handily to the first black president. The nation, which was two elections removed from considering which born into political royalty candidate would make the best president (Gore/Dubya) now shat on the republican party and all they had dreamed they had built, by electing a black man with relatively no experience to office. I'm not sure there is a bigger reminder as to how badly you really fucked up if your Dubya. There are stories of H.W. crying at the end of 2007, knowing that the Bush legacy had been irrevocably destroyed, because his true favorite son, Jeb, would never get to be president. Talk about burning the bridge down, Dubya damn near salted the earth as he went by. And now, you are probably beginning to wonder, how does all of this make any fucking sense? Where the fuck is the karma? Well chillren, lemme tell you how. You see, the Bush's thought that if Dubya won the presidency it would redeem H.W. For his humiliating lose to Clinton in '92, by defeating Bill's protege (Gore) in 2000. And though there's almost no chance they won this without rigging the election, thanks in part to
“Boy Genius” Karl Rove's playbook, a wins a win. And then in 2004, the luck of the draw/ sacrificial lamb of the democratic party (John Kerry) and again Rove's sadistic playbook (google widespread vote discrepancy in Ohio in '04) allowed for Dubya to continue on with his destructive ways. But you see, karma begins to shine through. Dubya should never been president to begin with. One aspect of our presidents is that they tend to be knowledgeable men; Dubya was not. And while he was smarter than he let on, that’s a back handed compliment especially when you're the president. He was under-qualified to state it mildly, and it should have been Jeb carrying on the Bush name. Jeb gave the process of running for president its due diligence, taking an almost identical path that his father took; rose from the leader of the Republican party in his adopted hometown (Florida), then to Governor. In 2004, he would have run for President, sans Dubya. But Dubya wanted the spotlight, and dammit he took it, leap frogging Jeb to take the Bush crown. One in which he would shatter, stomp, break and obliterate before it could ever so much as touch Jeb. When H.W. Came to bat for his oldest son Dubya in the 2000 campaign, he did so by attempting to thwart attacks that Bill Clinton had levied against his son, claiming Dubya was “only there cause he was a son of a president”. That was when karma decided, H.W. If ya want this so badly for your son, here you go...but I'll see you in eight years. And as H.W. Probably spent a year of his life loving it, and the next seven wishing he'd had thought better, Dubya was running amok. Karl Rove was attempting to catapult the Republican party to a future of running the country for years and years to come. And eight years later, Karma decided she'd (sounds cooler as a woman) had had enough. Eight years of mismanagement, neglect, abysmal approval ratings, personal agendas, and cronyism at its finest, she was ready to collect on some debts. Dubya was exiled back to Texas, nary to be heard from again. Herbert Walker is still crying, wishing it had been his level headed son Jeb, who took after him, and not Dubya, the one who took after Barbara. Karl Rove and Dick Cheney are relegated to defending their “legacies” (if overwhelming failure does in fact, lend itself to legacies) nightly on Fox News, and democrats not republicans, are fixin to rule the city (D.C) and the country for years to come. It's gotten so bad for the Republican party Newt Gingrich has decided he's gonna give it a crack at the ole' presidency in 2012; the same Newt Gingrich who once said of his wife, who he was pressing for a divorce while she lay in the hospital recovering from cancer that “She isn't young enough or pretty enough to be the President's wife." Oh how the mighty have fallen. Thanks Dubya, and while you may be shunned by your party, forced into a slow death in exile in Texas, I as a democrat would like to thank you; without you and your idiocy/incompetence none of this (Obama's America) would be possible. And you see, that's where it's karma. A family who believed it was self-entitled to serve as president for however many years it bear the offspring to do so, was humiliated by allowing it's black sheep to leap its prodigal son, fooling even his own family into thinking he was fit to lead the free world. And by that token Dubya himself said it (worst)“fool me once, shame on- shame on you. Fool me- you can't get fooled again.” The American people, who were too distraught after 9/11 and the ensuing attacks on Afghanistan and Iraq to do more than elect Dubya a second time (when 55 million americans were ridiculously wrong simultaneously) he only allowed the American people to see through his flaws, to see that he really was an overprivileged man-child with no business being in the position he was in. And while the Republican party should be sitting back and smoking stogies, talking about how Jeb's doing a fine job and will for another 6, we democrats are saying the same thing about Obama, laughing all the way. Karma remains a cruel bitch.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Having just returned from a Southern Illinois Miners game, a baseball team in Marion, Illinois (haven’t heard of it? Its called a fuckin map, take a look) in which we sat 6 rows from home plate, for a whopping 13 bucks. Usually, I’d take a caving in of my facial structure by a foul ball before I’d ever complain about any of this, but today was different; today we we sat in front of two male twinkies (twinners for you scoring at home) who couldn’t have been more than 13ish..I’m a terrible guesser of age (unless you’re a 17 year old girl: I smell jailbait) but the twinkies were there with their dad and older sister. Needless to say when I realized that I was having a Marty McFly moment in which I was looking at myself in the past, I immediately looked skyward and thought “lets see where this goes”. If you’ve read any of these posts (long winded back story), you know I have no idea what I truly look like, so it wouldn’t surprise you the slightest when I admit I’ve never thought of myself as a twin; growing up or now. It was always like I had a best friend, and we happened to have the same parents “you mean she’s your mom too?! Sicckkk broski” (verbatim conversation). I never grasped that whole “clone” of me concept. Note: I was born first, so that does give me claim to the fact that B is in fact, my clone. Anyhow, as I was sitting here, (creepily) watching/stalking these twinners, I came to far too many conclusions (none of which was “I’m gonna have to register as a sex offender if I don’t mind my own fucking business”). For starters, god created twins so that the introverted twin would always be the extroverted’s sidekick- a robin to his batman, a pippen to the others Jordan, a Ed McMahon to the others Johnny Carson, a Kevin Eubanks to the others Jay Leno (without the gay black man part) ..one was clearly more talkative, engaging his dad and sister constantly throughout the game, texting away. The other twin, not so much; he sat stoically, thinking and talking pretty much only to his bro. Though he seemed to articulate his points better (while still using “dude”, “sweet” and “lol” that is) and got better reactions from his sister when he did speak, he didn’t say a whole lot. (creeped out? Cause I am) While psychology would suggest that I was merely projecting my own insecurities off onto what I was seeing (this is why I like the Japanese; psychology is (can be) misused by those who wish to dismiss human behavior by categorizing it neatly into different diagnoses) I would tell that person to suck my dick cause that’s some steaming pile of bullshit. Well, not really, I’d probably agree (reluctantly), fuck. I watched these twins cause I wanted to know on a scale as to what I must look like to the general public (sans my massiveness). My true feelings are twins are each others best friend, while also being each others true nemesis. While in the process of how many years two twins “hang out” they get to know each other strengths, while also figuring out just how to bring the other down at any given point: there's always a way to completely destroy the others self-confidence, a way to bring the other so far down that they have to struggle to get back up. (sounds like an extremely cliche comic book) I know what I would have to do to my brother; I'm sure, as I've experienced some of it that he too knows how to do this to me. At that point, I feel as though there truly is an age where twins have to decide; are we mentally weak and going to live the bro life forever (and inadvertently remain in a perpetual state of some fucked up bachelorhood) or grow apart while doing it all on our own. Much like when Pippen ran the show in '94, its completely plausible.
(Note: in sticking with this analogy, while Pippen and the Bulls lost in 7 to the Knicks in the East Conference Semi finals (so clearly not the same results) he still averaged 21 ppg and 8 rebounds so, while he sat out and pouted cause it was Toni Kukoc who took the last shot in Game 3 of that series; I think its a sound analogy. Fuck I'd be pretty fuckin pleased if I could say I made the equivalent to the Eastern Conference Semifinals. While I'm unsure of the equivalent (imagine cars (WITH 22s!), broads (chicks or chickas) and money (cash, deniro, guap, chedda, bread, dough)
Were at that point; at times I feel bad for Bradley, because its hard for him to be himself around me. Not so much around me, but when I'm around, specifically if I'm the third wheel. There's a part of my personality which lends itself to being more compassionate, less aggressive than my brother.(Less manly, I’m sure) And while that makes him who he is, that’s also what sets me apart. But while I ponder all of this, I go for a walk, to grab two more beers (to begin the forgetting process). While on that walk I notice two more male twinners, these two all of five years old and dressed identically, head to toe. My initial thought was that this was all an elaborate dream, that I could flinch myself awake. (Fuck I def looked like a spaz) No dice, I then begin looking for Jack Nicholson wielding an ax, prepared to scalp me with one fell swoop; nope, I'm just stuck in twinkie land circa Rent One Ballpark. Sigh, if only it were The Shining.....
Thursday, July 8, 2010
I envision Cleveland looks similar to the scene in Armageddon where everyone in the world is listening to the radio for every conceivable update as the fate of the world rests in the balances (and its daylight all over the world in this scene which is why I hate Michael Bay, but I digress) I envision Clevelanders crowding around the 5 or 6 radios (forms of communication) that are left in a city that has the look of one that is disserted, one that will be disserted by its favorite child….If this were Armageddon (and my analogy made sense), Bruce Willis just got shot in the chest by the dude with a gun on the space shuttle, and the astronauts (insert: Lebron and his boys) are hauling ass out of there to witness the end of the world (ugh hang with me: end of cleveland) from a front row seat, far-far out of harms way…
The NBA wants Lebron in Miami; don’t let ESPN and every other media outlet fool you. Tim Legler was asked would this be good for the NBA? He answered, well fuck I dunno I can’t listen to ESPN carry out David Stern’s message. Stern is the architect, the man behind it all, a marketing genius that almost made basketball bigger than soccer internationally. He attempted to overthrow the international sport for the poor peasant, a sport that only requires a ball. Basketball, similarly, only requires a ball and a hoop. You can begin to see just where they got off thinking this way. (Long tangent with my dislike for the jewish mob boss) The NBA was at its absolute best in terms of revenue and global appeal came during the 1996-1998, the Jordan comeback years. The cast of characters; Jordan (the greatest), Pippen a formidable Robin to Jordan’s batman, and Rodman, the wild card who was part crazy, part druggie, and part outlaw. These three ran the NBA for three strong years, taking the Bulls (and the league) to places it had truly never been, including the likes of Singapore and deep in China. When they left, Stern had no idea how to market the NBA; he had gotten lazy, hadn’t kept up with the market. He thought that superstars could continue to carry the NBA, that the public’s infatuation with larger than life players who transcended the game would allow him to continue his push abroad, and his global takeover would be complete. He failed for multiple reasons. For one, Iverson had a run as the most marketable player in the NBA because he was in direct contrast to Jordan. He played like he was at the Rucker, with the killer crossover, cornrows and large entourage of black men to match the persona. He waived a gun, slapped around his wife and famously questioned practice; he didn’t give a shit what people thought of him, and that’s why people liked him. Jordan became so consumed by the notion that he had to have a perfect image that fans never felt we could relate, only imitate and emulate his greatness. But while Iverson was too short and never played within a team concept, Shaq and Kobe were cast as the heir to the Bulls throne. They weren’t the Bulls, even if Phil Jackson was cast to complete the allusion that they were. They couldn’t win consistently without Stern and his flunkies (referees, henchmen’s) help. Stern had to keep small market “teams” from beating his conglomerate of superstars. So he began what would effectively be known as “Sternball”, fixing games by telling the referees what fouls to call the night before the game, and letting them know the commissioner (who signs their checks) will be in fact watching to make sure the calls are made. Tremendous stress was put on the referees to follow with Sterns orders, to carry out his ultimate goal of global domination (this sounds like a Pinky and the Brain episode). Foul discrepancies became so ludicrous, if anyone disputes the fact the Kings should have handedly defeated the Lakers in 2003 or the Blazers should have won the western conference series in 2000 they have a refusal to admit and analyze facts. If you in fact think that I am a conspiracy theorist (in judging by the aluminum foil around my head, you’d be correct) I am not alone; read Tim Donaghy’s series on the NBA Finals on Deadspin in which it all but indicts Stern as the string puller of his group of marionettes. There has been a constant push to continue the superstar conglomerates, look at the 2008 Celtics as further proof. The Lakers, well they’re a marketable team back to the 1980s when Magic and Kareem led the NBA; as were the Celtics. The renewed rivalry was orchestrated, in part, because of the idea that sports (and life) are cyclical: that what we as consumers enjoyed back then, we will enjoy once again. (The McRib is the McDonalds equivalent of this) But the Lakers and Celtics only further proved that their sun is setting; they are getting older, look at Kevin Garnett’s knees for further example (Tangent) I love K.G., have ever since he came into the league. He plays basketball the way I believe I would (if I were a 6’10 black man with actual basketball talent); he plays like the horse in Animal Farm who constantly says “I will work harder”. But now, he’s reached the point in basketball lore when you must either reinvent your game as a jump shooter, or struggle and force all of your once fans to wince as you get out jumped by point guards and blocked by small forwards. The NBA knows this: that’s why there is no push as the Celtics being a marketable entity, because their best is behind them. They have heart, but that won’t beat talent 9 times out of 10. Alright, back to where I was….
There is no secret that these three, Bosh, Wade and James first became friends while playing for The Redeem Team in Beijing. Beijing, the capital of the largest untapped market in the entire world (China), acted as a stage for the three to begin to see just what they could be together. Winning would come easily; nightly they could each focus on other aspects of their game, without having to exhaust themselves by doing it all. No longer would Lebron have to leave it all out on the court only to be dead tired by playoff time. (or quit on his team and pout like he did this year) He could depend on others, those he thought as his equals on the court, who could take him to the promised land of championships, rings, champagne (groupies) and most of all the figurative mountain top that is a players marketability, the likes of which haven’t been seen since his airness. James wants to be Jordan. His only failure is in his desire to want to be like Mike; he comes off, and more than likely is, a megalomaniac in his own right, so consumed by his brand, his image, his appeal and constantly hearing just how great he truly is that he’s lost how to effectively communicate his desires to the public. Every word, hell every fart would be documented by (at least) the tag-alongs he kept along from his High School days, “his friends” who would constantly reassure him of his greatness, if only because they have three state championship rings (not to mention room, board and riches- think the Black Entourage) because of it. They run a company with his name on it, with the end goal to make Lebron bigger than anyone else in the sport(s). They have espn in their back pocket, but really the NBA does. The deal they signed allows ESPN to get first choice on most games it broadcasts, and to allow the average fan unprecedented access. Of course, few us of really give a shit about this access, but ESPN believes we must want it, because they force feed it to us and we are far too stupid to object and turn it off (guilty as charged) All of this culminating in tonights “the Decision” in which a full hour of riding Lebrons dick will come to head. The NBA loves it, a Heat triad would then recast Lebron, Bosh and Wade as the Jordan, Pippen and Rodman of this generation, and again would attempt to grease the (NBA marketing) wheel that has remained shut down and rusted, neglected since the days of the Bulls. This is Sterns chance to finish what he started. The invasion of basketball into China, a country with no noticeable national sport with the exception of sumo-wrestling and chess, could be swayed by a team so great that the world, including communist China, would take notice. Not to mention the target audience already had a teaser trailer, watching first hand just how great the team was when it destroyed the competition and took the gold medal stage in Beijing in 2008. This, my friends, is a heist one in which we haven’t seen at this magnitude. The drama is being billed, our emotions are being played upon and it all culminates at 8pm. Soccer, you’ve been warned, you’re time as the International pastime is in the cross heirs, and Stern wants to fire the deadening blow, a final knockout. For good reason, this drama is unfolding at the same time the World Cup is coming to a climax, in a blatant attempt to steal the thunder away from the momentum it had gained from High Definition television and a new generation’s appeal of an art form that takes shape in sport. Basketball can be this; watch the 80-90s NBA. Nowadays? It feels more like WWE, scripted theater in which a CEO is pulling the strings, casting villains and heroes who further help the rise and revenue of his fledgling company. In short, good bye Cleveland, your economy and place as the epicenter of this circus will be nuked at precisely 8:10 central time, with Lebron leaving his hometown, and you can begin to mourn the loss of any potential sports championship. There’s always Jake Delhomme and the Browns
Monday, July 5, 2010
To prove I have some knowledge, I’m going to write about baseball. If you read this and don’t like baseball (terrorist!) you are definitely a homeland security risk. Anyways its my birthday/yearly reminder Im one day older to dying, and espn classic just helped me realize the baseball gods do love me. All those years of unrequited little league baseball love, the black eyes from missed baseball (read: gold glove worthy) I was the daryl strawberry of little league. Unlimited potential. I mean, I was a batting machine hall of famer, just crushed it. But put me up against live pitching, and I was terrified of getting hit (the irony being I would soon get hit(by people) playing football for 8 years)..Sidenote: you’d think with twinners, one of us would have developed some sort of fastball throwing to the other one. Nope, both have terrible mechanics. Just didn’t have the intangibles (mel kiper!) But this is all for down the road, to a therapist I assume…The reality is with my little league career (or lack there of) and my favorite team is the Chicago Cubs…yeah, you’d feel unloved too. Baseball hasn’t really shown me much love, but today the baseball gods smiled upon me. I got to watch the 2001 World Series Game 7 (widely regarded as the death of the Yankees dynasty), backed up by Barry Bonds 756th home run. And I realized I didn’t immediately know how many home runs Bonds ended with. Now, If you can read, and have proved it by reading previous posts you’d know Im not only insane about my random facts, but Im a sports junkie (literally, withdrawals are the worst) So for me not to know this, was sad. But not surprising (given my college lifestyle) that I cant. Disappointed with myself; (until) I shifted the blame. Its not my fault I don’t know this stat, its society and the people they employs (newspaper writers, keep up) fault. There the ones who made me feel guilty about my obsession (no homo) of the 90s power hitters. I was a huge fan, I fuckin loved gorilla ball. Just meat sticks hitting cock shots way outta the park with little visual effort, with fluidity and gracefulness (it is a word!), yet such raw power..well dammit its impressive. It made me feel like, “these guys are gladiators”; I could never do that. Now a days, the people in and around baseball have done there best to bury the era of statistics I grew up pouring over. I mean Bonds hit 756 and 6 more (762 for you dumbasses) at 43. Yeah it was ridiculous, retirement coulda been 46- fourty fuckin six he coulda still been playing for millions. Still commanding oh 3 million dollars (ex:Jason Giambi) for maybe a .260 with that more times than never but never is damn close, raw flashes of what once was. Why did we not allow Bonds those years; best typified by the movie The Wrestler, we could have seen those three years (ex: David Ortiz) where a former somebody (akin to the heavyweight boxers plight) crumbles in front of your eyes. They think they still have it, they WANT it SO BAD, but there’s no gas left in that tank, and there the only ones who don’t see that were all witnessing the” diminished skills” years (big ups Ken Williams) of otherwise hall of fame careers. And on my birthday I want that. I want to think, “he’s falling apart at 39..sucker” I have to feel young. And if we had allowed Clemens and Bonds to do it until they were 46, fuckin A! I would’ve been set into my 30s of this uplifting tradition. Watching my heroes of yesteryear crumble in front of my eyes and realizing “Im still young look at this old fucker” (yes, I am vain) side note: (which excuses the fact its completely random) I just realized I was watching western Michigan vs Michigan softball…and they say heroin is an addiction…try sports But, sportswriters and there pretensions and soap boxes they preach on to scare the 35 year old soccer moms who trust them cause it occasionally makes them laugh/cry/feel sentimental I’m looking at you, Rick Reilly. The same sportswriters who give the Justice system legitimacy in there voting and presiding over who makes the Baseball hall of fame. Ron Santo not being a hall of famer is all evidence I need to question the credibility of the MLB hall of fame process/baseball sports writers. The idea is if Santo is a hall of famer the 1969 team would have 4 hall of famers.. That’s a shit ton, that’s saying half of your lineup is great. And you never won a pennant. Santos overall impact on the game, at this point, is hall of fame worthy (regardless if he is senile), the bottom line is: the fucker has two fake legs. Let him get elected before he dies, those blissful years (are you seeing a trend? I feel fuckin old!) before they fade completely to black. HE CANT ENJOY IT WHEN HES DEAD.