On The New York Mets

Just as I was preparing to go to sleep last night, I heard on WFAN (thank you Internet, for allowing me to listen to WFAN even though I'm now 3,000 miles from home) that the Mets had officially fired manager Willie Randolph, pitching coach Rick Peterson, and first-base coach Tom Nieto. From 12:00am PST to about 5:00am PST, the phone lines were abuzz with callers killing the Mets for the way that they have handled the managerial situation, and you can count me as one of the team's fans who are disappointed with the way ownership has operated this season. Every member of the organization should be embarrassed for the way this situation was handled.

I understand that someone needed to be held accountable for last year's late season collapse (which, by the way, was not the worst collapse of all time -- check your facts, people), but this simply was not a constructive way to deal with the demons of last season. If anyone is to be held accountable, it should be Omar Minaya, not Willie Randolph. Omar spent 130-million dollars on one of the oldest teams in the league. How could they not be expected to break down over the course of a season, or show greater signs of age-related decline from one season to the next? So Willie Randolph wasn't the best motivator, and he had trouble handling his bullpen. Neither of these, really, are cause for dismissal. Especially not following a cross-country flight, and a win against a tough Anaheim team.

Perhaps even more baffling then the firing of Randolph is the firing of pitching coach Rick Peterson. The guru. The geek. The guy whose clubhouse interviews were always sure to go over the heads of interviewers and even the most devout baseball fans. What did he ever do, other than make a bold statement about how he could fix Victor Zambrano in ten minutes? That was, like, four years ago. He made John Maine into a star. He...uh...always wore a windbreaker? I don't know, I just feel like he was unfairly fired. I hope he gets a job elsewhere, maybe with a young staff like Cincinnati, and works wonders with a fresh batch of kids the same way he did in Oakland with Hudson, Mulder and Zito.

I'm so angry with this fucking team. Is it too much to ask that -- if you're going to "shake things up", you at least doing without making everyone involved (except the recently axed) look like fucking assholes? I'm trying to support the team. They're twenty miles away from my house playing a game right now against the Angels and I don't even care enough to drive there and watch. It's pathetic. Fire Omar Minaya. Try to woo a Paul DePodesta, or a J.P Riccardi protege away from their respective teams. What's John Schuerholz doing? To be honest, I think Steve Phillips had higher standing with me when he was fired than Minaya has right now, and Phillips made that erroneous Scott Kazmir trade.

Whatever, I'm done ranting. Enjoy these MP3s, especially the My Bloody Valentine one, which was recorded a few nights ago. 24 minutes of "You Made Me Realise?" I'm so there.

- Congratulations to Sean from Wisconsin, who won himself a copy of Dennis Wilson's long-out-of-print, recently-reissued Pacific Ocean Blue, courtesy of the fine folks at Sony BMG. Yeah, that's right, I said fine folks at Sony BMG. Sean designed the little favicon you see in the address bar next to the URL of this website. As for the prize, the double-CD contains the simply incredible solo album by late Beach Boy drummer Dennis Wilson, who more than proved he had the chops to make fantastic music on his own when it was originally released in 1977. Original copies of the CDs (and LPs) reached stratospheric heights in recent years due to a renewed interest in Pacific Ocean Blue, so now collectors and hobbyists alike can revel in the album's warm, placid beauty. From the first time I heard the stunning "River Song" I've prayed for an expanded version of the full-length, and now it's finally here. The bonus disc of previously unreleased tracks is not nearly as strong as the first disc, and the Taylor Hawkins version of "Holy Man" is downright deplorable, but Sony Legacy has to be commended for their preserving and renewing interest in such a wonderful recording. You can buy the album from Amazon.com by clicking here: (buy this album).

The follow-up to Suplex, which is perhaps one of the five best albums ever put out by the now-weathered label K Records. "Karp bowed out of existence with this monster of a record, arguably the best influence Iron Maiden has ever had on any other band ever (the worthy-of-worship song titles are all the band's own, though). From the balls-out opening riff on the brilliant "Bacon Industry" to the closing, throat-shredding mania on "J Is for Genius," this quite literally self-titled record simply does not and will not let up. The vocals sounds even more raw and raunchy than before -- this is hard rock that lives up to the name -- and the temptation to pump one's fist is almost impossible to resist. The trio's ear for sassy, snarling, hip-grinding hooks gives everything a sandpaper-rough edge to hang onto, explaining why the stomp and sway of "Forget the Minions" and "Octoberfleshed" are so damn worthy of being cranked up all the way to 11. Even if the lyrics can't really be heard -- then again, do they need to be? -- they too are wonderful, if only for such head-shaking combinations as, "My Mazaradi goes 185/I lost my license/So now I can't drive," or, in "D & D Fantasy," "You pay for what you get/A f*cked Erector Set with indoor plumbing!" The coup de grace is an unlisted bonus track that has all three of them just frenetically letting loose, voices yelling about the devil and the like over pure theatrical, idiotic, and wonderful metal angst-like volume. It couldn't be finer. Just what is needed if waking the dead is the goal -- or ensuring the neighbors will grab torches and start calling for a public burning." - AllMusic.com

Karp
Karp
MediaFire Download Link

Tracklist:
01. Bacon Industry
02. Forget The Minions
03. Bastard Of Disguise
04. Octoberfleshed
05. D+D Fantasy
06. We Ate Sand
07. Spelling Trouble
08. J Is For Genius

Tags: New York Mets, Willie Randolph, Rick Peterson, Tom Nieto, fire, Omar Minaya, Wilpons, general manager, manager, National League, baseball, Dennis Wilson, Pacific Ocean Blue, re-issue, Nina Nastasia, James Blackshaw, My Bloody Valentine, Colour Haze, Karp, self-titled, mp3, blog, download, bootleg, live, rare, out-of-print

Comparing Mets Games To Obscure "South Park" Scenes, And A Live Didjits Album

Hey online friends, "what's up"?

Me? I guess I'm doing fine. I have a gnawing pain in my stomach experts or scientists would probably define as hunger, and I have a lot of little errands to run today before work, but other than that I can't complain.

I guess you're all hear because you're waiting for me to talk about the Mets, right? You want to know how it feels to be obsessed with a sports team at a time when that team literally could not be performing at a lower level. You might even be expecting some sort of hilarious diatribe in which I proclaim to have burnt the miniature Mets bat I got at my first game in 1988 as a sacrifice to the baseball gods, so that they might bring the team good fortune.

Oh...you're just hear for the free mp3s? Those are at the bottom of the page. See you tomorrow, I guess?

I have no idea how to fix the baseball team, that's why I'm not the general manager of a sports franchise. But I've watched enough games this year -- I'm a masochist -- to clearly see that this team is, well, not all that good. I wouldn't say my level of frustration has reached where it was during the last month of last season, but the sustained lackadaisical play has actually lulled me into a comatose, emotionless state. I sit on the couch bathed in the television's warm, glowing, warming glow, and I imagine I look like how Kyle looked while watching The Passion Of Christ on that episode of South Park. [1st Inning] [5th Inning] [SNY Post-Game]

I'm always looking ahead, though. I don't care about how the team is 79-83 in their last 162 games. Numbers that spans two seasons are completely irrelevent because the only win-loss record that matters now is this season. The team is 23-26, and they're 6.5 games out of first place. That's by no means insurmountable. The Yankees are 25-26 and 6 games out of first place. No one expects them to remain in last place all season. If the Mets can rip off six or seven games in a row (that's a somewhat conservative expectation for a winning streak) they'll be in much better shape, the media attention will be quelled, and the players can begin to relax. Tonight Johan Santana pitches against an overachieving Marlins squad whose flirtation with sustained winning streaks should conclude any day now. As cliche as it sounds, taking one or two games from a first place team can start the ball rolling. What was that quote from Major League..."Ok, guys. We've won two games in a row. If we win tonight, it's called a winning streak. It has happened before."

Winning games is simple. Hit well, pitch well, catch the ball. Each day I tell myself, "today's the day the Mets will do all three". Maybe today is that day.

- If you haven't already noticed, the site underwent yet another redesign last evening. I know I suck, and can't stick with a color scheme for more than three months, but people were complaining that the white-on-blue was hurting their eyes, so I went with something softer...something nicer...something gayer. If you like this pattern, you can tell me so in person, as I will be making an appearance at the Crate & Barrel on Highway 46 in Bluffton this weekend to sign autographs and deliver a lecture entitled "Duvets For The Y Generation".

Tags: mp3, blog, download, New York Mets, baseball, masochism, SNY, South Park, The Passion Of The Jew, hope, optimism, statistics, win-loss record, expectations, Florida Marlins, Johan Santana, Major League, movie, redesign, Didjits, Que Sirhan Sirhan, Agent 99, Judge Hot Fudge, Spicy Little Outfit, Sister Sin, Fire In The Hole, Evilized, Sick Of My Fix, Turn It Up, Monkey Suit, Barely Legal

On Carbonated Soft-Drinks And MLB.TV

Where are all the "sodey pop" drinkers!?

I think I should start today with good news: I haven't consumed any sodey pop since last Tuesday afternoon (3/25). That's one full week without sweet, delicious, refreshing sodey pop. Really, it hasn't been that much of a struggle. For the past seven days I have consumed only water, and three bottles of Arizona Iced-Tea. I only used No-Doz for the first two days, and have not popped any more since Wednesday or Thursday of last week. Personally, I wish I didn't drink the Arizona Iced-Tea, because it contains high fructose corn syrup just like Coke does, but I couldn't think of any other caffeine-rich beverages I have ever enjoyed drinking, so I had to buy it. If you have any non-energy drink suggestions, let me know...

The bad news is, I've already cancelled my MLB.tv package. The baseball season is less-than 48 hours young, and I've had enough of frozen videos and server connection issues. I think the final nail in the coffin was when missed the opening pitch of the Mets game. I swear to God, I was seeing red as I tried in vain to get in touch with MLB.tv technical support. I wanted to throw my phone against the wall, I wanted to hurl my laptop into oncoming traffic, and most of all I wanted to strangle anybody within strangling distance. That kind of pure rage does not overtake me very often. MLB.tv is lucky my readership is so small, or I would pen them the nastiest "Letter to No One" ever. Come to think of it, I'm going to write them one even though I've already canceled my account. It took me forty-five minutes this morning to weave my way through their automated phone system and actually get through to a live human being, but I have been refunded my $119.95, and will be putting it towards the MLB Extra Innings TV package at Nicci's. I think that's a better way to spend my hard-earned money. I think Nate and Tom might chip in a few dollars too to lighten the load. The prospect of being able to watch all of the SNY broadcasts has me salivating. In any event, I should probably head over there now and make the phone call so that I can be ready for the first pitch at 4:05 PST.

I'm trying to think of a contest where I could give the winner an extra copy of Nick Drake's Pink Moon on vinyl (the Simply Vinyl re-issue). I bought one of the Fruit Tree boxes at work (only $30!) and have no clue as to what I should do with this extra copy. It's in great-enough shape that I could sell it, but if anyone has an idea for a contest I'll gladly listen. Maybe something involving reader-penned top ten lists...

I think it'd be humorous to start describing this page as "reader supported" (you know, like how freeform radio stations describe themselves as "listener supported") because none of you people ever donate any money to me, and it doesn't even cost anything to maintain this page. That's okay, I'm not mad at you for being cheap. I'm the cheapest person I know. I love you all.

Tags: soda, high fructose corn syrup, coca cola, mlb.tv, baseball, mets, nick drake, pink moon, contest, freeform, library tapes, fragments, mp3, download, blog

On Opening Day, And Massages Without "Happy Endings"

I awoke slowly this morning, but upon noticing that it was roughly ten o'clock, suddenly sprung forth from bed. It was approaching 1:00pm on the east coast, and the first pitches of Opening Day were about to occur. I raced downstairs in the hopes that no one was awake and watching the television, and thankfully found an empty living room. I plopped down on the couch and tuned into ESPN. They were talking about a rain delay in New York. A short while later they shipped their viewers to the already in-progress Royals/Tigers game, which I watched for several innings. At noon, I raced home to my apartment to shower and dress. When I returned to the house, the first pitch of the Mets game was less than an hour away.

I used my computer to navigate to MLB.tv, and tried out their new "high-def" plugin, which froze up every twenty-six seconds. It was an inauspicious start. When they unlocked the Mets game, I tried to click through to the video broadcast and nothing happened. I tried in vain for ten minutes, continually facing denial-of-service errors from the website. I grew irate. I picked up my phone and stepped outside to call and complain, but I could not get through to an agent. There was a long hold time, and I didn't want to miss the first pitch of the Mets 2008 season. I raced back inside and wondered if maybe MLB Extra Innings was offering a free preview this year. Luckily, they were. I tuned into the game, and all I missed was Jose Reyes' opening at-bat. I watched the next seven innings with Nicci and was overjoyed by the team's 7-2 win. So overjoyed was I that I decided to let Nicci pay for us to get Swedish massages in North Hollywood.

I've never gotten a massage before. Quite frankly, the whole thing seems pretty revolting. You take off all your clothes and lay down in a tiny room with a stranger who touches and rubs your entire body for an hour. The notion of being trapped in that tiny room trying to relax actually caused me some anxiety. By the time we arrived at the massage parlor (is that what it's called?), I was ready to say, "I'm going to sit this one out." Then I realized that it would probably be quite a humorous experience that could come in handy at some point in my future, and decided I would go through with the massage.

I undressed in my tiny, dark alcove. I sat patiently until a woman poked her head through the curtain. She said something I could not understand, and I asked her where the restroom was. I needed to piss really bad. When I was done I returned to my nook and sat waiting. Another woman poked her head inside and told me to lay down on my stomach with my head firmly against the padded, adjustable face holder. When she returned, I kept my head down. I refused to look at her, because I thought maybe I wasn't supposed to see her face. It felt like an execution. I was waiting for a guillotine blade to fall. At first, she draped a wet towel over my feet and cleaned them off, which I thought was quite smart considering I'd just walked down the hall to the bathroom barefoot. Anyway, while I was waiting to be maimed, I heard what sounded like someone drawing soap from a container. Then I felt the hands on my back and shoulders. They were covered in some sort of massage oil. It had a somewhat minty smell to it. She continued to draw more oil from the container, until I was convinced my entire body was lubricated enough for me to easily squeeze into the clenched asshole of planet Earth. Then she asked if I had any tension. Never having received a professional massage before, I said, "I don't know, a little?" then shut up for the next hour. I tried my best to predict how much time had elapsed. I watched her tiny feet and her delicately painted red toenails move in a semi-circle around the table as she massaged my back and shoulders. She pulled my shorts down far enough that the fat of my ass was the only thing keeping them from snapping back to their upright position. She massaged my back, shoulders and ass for what felt like thirty minutes. It was quite nice. Three funny moments: her obscenely oily hands on my grossly oiled left shoulder at one point created an air pocket that sounded like a fart. I had to stifle my laughter because I'm an immature asshole. A few minutes later, she sneezed all over my left calf. If it was anybody else, I would have screamed, "Ew, what the fuck!?" and made them wipe the wetness from my leg. But in this scenario I was unable to move and unable to speak. I simply let the wetness on my leg persist until she moved from my back to my lower-half. Lastly, while she was massaging my thighs and calves, I had the distinct feeling one of her greasy fingers was going to slip and enter my asshole. She had my boxers bunched up around my dick so she could work my groin muscles and I was completely certain the sheer amount of oil would cause her to lose her grip and wind up wrist-deep in my anus.

I began to notice the music that was playing, and the sounds of the surrounding rooms. There was an open top, so I could hear what sounded like regal wedding music (classical melodies with a tinge of eastern flare). I could have sworn that there were three CDs playing at once: the wedding music, a stream of water, and crickets. As I focused all of my attention on these sounds, I noticed a fourth sound: faint snoring. I pondered whether or not the staff piped in the sound of light snores to coax clients into sleeping through their massages, but then they started to grow louder, and I realized they were coming from the person in the room next to me. When the snores ceased, I heard a woman say, "Sleepy?" and an Asian, male voice said something brief followed by uncomfortable laughter.

At some point she finished lubricating my backside. She disappeared through the curtain and I wondered if she would be returning to clean me off, or if I was going to have to venture out into the world totally greasy and uncomfortable. I feared that perhaps the oil was colored blue or red, and if I walked outside my skin would be temporarily dyed. She returned with a basket filled with scalding hot towels, which she used to clean me. Being covered in hot towels caused me to suddenly feel sleepy. I regained my composure when she tapped me on the back and asked me to turn over. I refused to make eye contact with her as she worked on my shoulders, chest, thighs and calves. Even when she massaged my face and scalp I wouldn't look her in the eye. In my mind, this massage room was comparable to a glory hole.

After she finished massaging my face, she asked me to sit up. With her knees against my back, she attempted to work the final knots out of my back. Then, she thanked me and left. Was I supposed to undress and put my clothes back on? Was she going to return and give me an analysis? I sat in silence for a minute. She didn't return. No, "this house...is clear" summation of whatever tension I carry in my muscles. Nothing. Just...silence. I walked out to the waiting room and met Nicci. She waited until we were outside to ask how it was, and I told her flat out: it was really nice. I enjoyed it.

What am I, some fucking fag? I enjoyed getting a massage? Ugh. I hate myself.

Pictures are pending...I'll upload them tomorrow.

Tags: massage, happy ending, north hollywood, swedish, baseball, opening day, mets, mp3, download, blog, hawkwind, pink anderson, fuck buttons, dillard chandler

Baseball's Biggest Egos

In two hours and twenty minutes (I'm writing this shortly after midnight because I have to work all day Tuesday), the 2008 Major League baseball season will start. The first pitch will be thrown by Joe Blanton to whoever is hitting leadoff for the Red Sox tonight (Pedroia? Youkilis?). The Mets play their first game against the Marlins on the 31st. It's all really quite exciting. Opening Day really is unlike any other day of the year. Every team begins with the same record, and fans across the country believe this will be their year.

So it is only fitting that Maxim Magazine takes a break from penning God-awful music reviews (this week's include Madball, The Police, and Rufus Wainwright, plus an article on "Icon" Kid Rock) and shitty bar jokes to present their online audience with a list of the ten biggest baseball egos. Their list opens with Tommy Lasorda -- an awful choice considering he's an ambassador of the game -- extends through Ted Williams (because he had four nicknames and wrote a book on hitting?), Pete Rose (cheating and lying aren't necessarily linked to vanity), and Keith Hernandez (all it takes is listening to one Mets game to hear how modest he is), and ends with Reggie Jackson. Roughly two of the names on the Maxim list would make my list, and those are Barry Bonds and Billy Beane. Here's my list of the ten biggest egos in baseball.

10) Jose Canseco - Made a fortune on his book Juiced about playing during baseball's steroid era. He said steroids were great and should be legalized because they're beneficial to players. I can't imagine being a reporter at a time when a guy showed up to on game day looking like this and it didn't raise a single eyebrow. Now Canseco is pushing a sequel to his book called Vindicated. His interviews sound so completely pompous, but there is absolutely no substance to anything he says. It's remarkable to witness. Next to Gwyneth Paltrow, Jose Canseco is the most erudite-looking moron I've ever heard.

09) Curt Schilling - He's got a blog called 38 Pitches where he talks about anything that is on his mind, but usually analyzes his starts and calls out the media for inaccuracies in their coverage of him and the Red Sox. Someone's a bit of an anal retentive control freak, no?

08) Gary Sheffield - During the World Baseball Classic (a sort-of World Cup for baseball that enables countries to compete against one another in the spirit of the game), Sheffield stated that he didn't much care for the event, saying, "[his] season is when [he's] getting paid." He's said that when he was looking to get traded early in his career, he would play poorly or purposely not try his best to win. About his teammate Bobby Abreu, Sheff once said, "He's a good player, but like I say, you can draw it up any kind of way: he aint' me. And that's the bottom line."

Peter gleefully fingers Condi's asshole at a recent Giants game

07) Peter Magowan - The owner of the San Francisco Giants told an interviewer that when his team was winning, manager Dusty Baker got too much credit for their success. He and the team's general manager recently came under fire for their culpability in ignoring the growing steroid problem in baseball. Magowan reportedly said in his interview for the Mitchell Report that Barry Bonds admitted to him that he was using steroids, then he withdrew the remark a few days later. Look at how shitty the Giants are and tell me who is at fault. I'm sure Magowan has a slew of names (none of which are Peter Magowan) belonging to those responsible.

06) Joe Morgan - Perhaps the worst broadcaster in the history of baseball, Joe Morgan is also an under-spoken narcissist. He doesn't make brash statements in the vein of a Gary Sheffield, but if you listen to even one of the games he announces on ESPN, you'll see my point. Sure, he hates all white people, but he especially hates smart while people, supposed egotist Billy Beane. Morgan has said he has nothing to learn from a writer or statistician who has never played the sport as a professional, and that "...anytime you're trying to make statistics tell you who's gonna win the game, that's a bunch of geeks trying to play video games." He also sued the LAPD for detaining him at LAX on suspicion of drug charges and won nearly a one million dollar settlement. What a fucking fag.

05) Billy Martin - If you raised even a slight point of contention with the five-time Yankee manager, you risked being pulled into a fight. He had to be restrained while going after Reggie Jackson in the dugout during a nationally televised game. He called out George Steinbrenner on his conviction for making illegal donations to Richard Nixon's presidential campaign). Those are two of the biggest egos in baseball in Jackson and Steinbrenner, and Martin took them both on with the vigor of a drunken Irishman.

04) Roger Clemens - His denials regarding his supposed steroid and human growth hormone use are despicable, but what's worse is that the guy actually believes in his own innocence. He threw a fastball at Mike Piazza's head because the guy was simply better than him, then threw a shard of bat at him during the World Series because...well, I guess 'roid rage will make a man do unusual things. Every time I see his face on TV I feel sick. What a nauseatingly egotistical asshole.

Barry, following one of his many court appearances

03) Barry Bonds - Take Roger Clemens and multiply that by one thousand and you have Barry Bonds. The way he smiles when demeaning reporters asking about his legal issues (steroids, perjury, whatever) makes me want to stab him in the face. He really is the epitome of an egomaniac. All it takes is listening to a single press conference. You'll hate him as much as I do.

Look at that sad sack of shit, left alone to wonder why he sucks

02) Alex Rodriguez - It's funny, too, because the guy is such a fucking headcase you just know that he's really sensitive and emotional and prone to bouts of depression. Look at that picture. Do you remember the way he spoke during his sub-par stretch two years ago? It was fucking hilarious. It didn't matter if the team won or lost, all he wanted to talk about was how well he hit on certain days. For Alex, the three-run homerun he hit in the fourth inning of a blowout was more newsworthy than the crucial throwing errors that lead to a disheartening loss. Don't forget how he threw Derek Jeter under the bus before he became a Yankee, telling Sports Illustrated that he was the most feared shortstop in the game, and that pitchers didn't fear Jeter. Lastly, if you're going to opt out of your contract (the richest ever awarded to a ballplayer) then re-sign with the same team for a new record-setting contract, you've got to have quite a big fucking ego. I hope he dies of AIDS.

01) Derek Jeter - What a smug, arrogant piece of shit. He is a pathetic excuse for a ballplayer, whose entire career has been built on sheer luck. It just so happens he's performed adequately at an important position for a team that bought a handful of championships in the '90s. If you put that dufus and his gay-ass fade haircut on the field for any other team, you'll see just how mediocre this scumbag truly is. He wouldn't switch positions when the Yankees signed Alex Rodriguez (who is a vastly superior shortstop), and he's a fucking tax cheat. When people describe Jeter's talent they often use the word "intangibles", meaning he's really talented in ways that are impossible to grasp, and the ways in which he makes his team better cannot be quantified by trivial means such as statistics. So, basically what that means is, in a sport where statistics mean absolutely everything -- and are valued much more than in any other professional sport -- Derek Jeter's greatness is entirely speculative. I wonder if, in a league of all Derek Jeters, might we finally stop the unnecessary act of counting wins and losses? Because, after all, it's not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game.

Tags: baseball, top ten, egotist, maxim magazine, list, jose canseco, curt schilling, gary sheffield, peter magowan, joe morgan, billy martin, george steinbrenner, roger clemens, barry bonds, alex rodriguez, derek jeter, mp3, blog, download, jackson c frank, the damned, the frogs, loren connors

Spring Training And "Post-Rock"

So the Mets are off to a rather inauspicious start this spring. Johan Santana gave up a few runs in his first outing of the year, and the team has only one win to show for itself against Major League Competition so far (they beat the University of Michigan, but that won't show up in Grapefruit League standings). Furthermore, Carlos Delgado -- who is supposed to have a productive 2008 after last year's injury-plagued, generally-disappointing season -- was sent from Port St. Lucie to New York for an MRI on his ailing hip. The test results turned out to be negative, but then Marlon Anderson and Ryan Church collided yesterday, leaving Church with a concussion. Sounds more like a bad Bad News Bears script than a Mets Spring Training update.

Unsurprisingly, ESPN's Buster Olney picked Santana to win this year's National League Cy Young Award yesterday in a videotaped message on the network's website. Today on his "Insider's" blog, he wrote about Delgado, stating that the Mets should be looking outside the organization for help at first base if the injury is more serious than the team is letting on. He offers Nick Johnson, Scott Hatteberg, Richie Sexson, Tony Clark and Kevin Millar as options. Frighteningly bad. Let's hope the injury isn't that bad.

***

Explosions In The Sky
2002-09-18 Peel Sessions
MediaFire Download Link (34.15)

Track Listing:
01) First Breath After Coma
02) The Moon Is Down
03) Memorial

Explosions In The Sky
2003-11-02 Peel Sessions
MediaFire Download Link

Track Listing:
01) Only Moment We Were Alone
02) The Long Spring
03) With Tired Eyes, Tired Minds, Tired Souls, We Slept

Don't you want to buy a "vintage" Explosions In The Sky shirt of mine on eBay? If so, check out my latest eBay auction. Not only is the shirt from a concert way back in 2003 or 2004, your money will support a good cause! And that cause is me! I don't recall ever wearing it or washing it, which is odd because why the hell did I pack it in my suitcase to bring to LA if I was going to continue not wearing it? Oh well, whatever. If someone from this blog wins the auction, I'll throw in a special secret surprise with the t-shirt. Just for you!

Tags: baseball, Mets, Carlos Delgado, ESPN, Johan Santana, Buster Olney, Explosions In The Sky, Peel Sessions, John Peel, mp3, blog, download

Derek "Peter Eater" Jeter, A Guy With A Good Memory, And Kids These Days

• Poor Derek Jeter got her panties all in a bunch because Ivy-League statisticians calculated that Jeter is the worst defensive shortstop in Major League Baseball. The player's excuse, "Every [shortstop] doesn't stay in the same spot, everyone doesn't have the same pitching. Everyone doesn't have the same hitters running, it's impossible to do that." New York Yankees senior advisor Gene Michael was equally mad, stating, "Something like that is a disgrace. It made me ill when I read that article...Derek doesn't really have a sinkerball pitching staff whereas other shortstops, you sit behind certain pitchers, you're going to get a lot of ground balls." Not only does Mr. Michael appear to believe that there teams around the league have only sinkerballer pitchers, he seems to have forgotten all about his own team's "ace". Chien-Ming Wang, with his 2.68:1 ground-ball-to-fly-ball ratio is the best sinkerballer in the American League. Oh, and as far as total ground balls are concerned, Yankee pitcher Andy Pettite ranked 14th in all of baseball last year with 331 ground balls. Not to be outdone, Wang ranked 6th with 381. No other team in the league had two starters in the top fifteen. So it's not like Miss Jeter was bereft of opportunities to show us how good she is. ESPN's Keith Law says of Jeter, "If you watch Jeter even a few games and can't see how limited his range is to his left or how bad his footwork is, you're a bad evaluator. It's blindingly obvious. It should be a test teams give prospective pro scouts - break down Jeter's defense. If they say he's great or that he's clutch, they don't get the job." Obviously, I agree with Law and the smart folks at the University of Pennsylvania who arrived at this conclusion. [story]

• Brad Williams is the anti-Evan LeVine. The 51-year-old news anchor is one of two people in the world possessing what is called a "superior autobiographical memory." He can easily recall the most mundane details of his entire life. "For example, he can tell you it was Aug. 18, 1965, when his family stopped at Red Barn Hamburger during a road trip through Michigan. He was 8 years old at the time. And he had a burger, of course. 'It was a Wednesday,' recalled Williams. 'We stayed at a motel that night in Clare, Michigan. It seemed more like a cabin.'" What the fuck!? That is the most unfair fucking gift in the entire world. Why the hell can't he offer me even 5% of his memory power. I can't even picture what the hell my family looks like, let alone remember the specific details of things we've done. I don't even remember how old I was during family vacations. It doesn't matter what vacation you want to hear about, odds are I'll say it was when I was either eight years old or eleven years old. I don't even know why I use those two ages. They just sound right. Ugh. This article is infuriating to read because it makes me feel utterly inept. I seriously feel like, what good am I to this world if I can't remember the last time I ate a hamburger, let alone a hamburger I ate when I was eight years old? Fuck you and your superior memory, old man. [story]

• Apparently kids this year are giving up MySpace and Facebook for Lent. That's the holiday that goes on for a month or whatever? I don't know anything about religion, and if I learned anything about it I've already forgotten it BECAUSE I HAVE A HORRIBLE MEMORY. Sorry, I got off-track for a moment. Here's a better idea: How about everybody gives up MySpace and Facebook forever. [two minutes later: I just realized I forgot to sign out of MySpace this morning. Now it looks like I've been online all day. Nice going, jackass (me, not you). I can't even do that right.]

• Speaking of me...Today I tried to reintroduce myself into the outside world. "No more time will be wasted holed up in a house or apartment trying to battle a virus," I thought. "I'm going to physically turn the tides against whatever heinous germs are fighting to remain in my system." Unfortunately, it wasn't very easy to get myself started this morning. By 1:00pm I had barely showered and managed to get dressed, and I was not feeling all that well. Although my throat felt much better, my head was pounding, my thoughts were scattered, and I was feeling a bit better, so I drove to Amoeba and spent roughly $75 on records. That was fun, if not entirely unnecessary given that I haven't worked all week and have only a light paycheck to look forward to during this "rent is due" week. You, my dear reader, should do your part and buy the Knicks tickets I'm selling on eBay from 3,000 miles away! Or, donate a dollar to the site. Almost 700 people come to this page each day. I mean, you've all seen the little DONATE button at the top of the left-hand column on this page, right? Have you ever thought about actually clicking it? If each of you gave me one dollar I'd be able to pay rent this month and maybe eat a nice dinner, too. So, won't you help this starving, poor child?

No? Well, fuck you!

Tags: derek jeter, shortstop, mlb, baseball, yankees, keith law, photographic, memory, hamburger, michigan, memory, myspace, social networking, rent, amoeba, donate

On Steroids, HGH, Roger Clemens, And This Congressional Hearing Thingy

Roger Clemens ("pitcher") tends to an injured Derek Jeter ("catcher")

I woke up early this morning to watch what I felt was a reasonable portion of the congressional hearing regarding the use of steroids in baseball, and chiefly Roger Clemens' assessment that his former trainer's statements about supposed steroid/human growth hormone use were lies. There was no way I felt like waking up at 6:30am this morning -- on my day off -- to watch the entire ESPN broadcast, but I watched from 9:00am until its conclusion, and read Jayson Stark's blog updates from the few hours I missed.

I should preface my remarks on the hearing by stating I haven't believed Roger Clemens is innocent since the moment I heard his name tied to former Senator George Mitchell's investigation. Perhaps my disdain is to some degree tied in with his being a beloved Yankee pitcher, but to be honest I pretty much treat all public figures similarly when they are faced with legal issues. None of them ever want to admit to any wrongdoing, and most of them are so adamant about it I cannot help but believe they are all guilty. So, with those two sticking points perpetually on my mind as I read more and more about the legal chess match leading up to today's hearing, I found myself solidly backing Clemens' former trainer Brian McNamee's testimony delivered to Mitchell and federal prosecutors. At the very heart of this saga there is a simple fact that people seem to overlook: McNamee had no reason to lie in his original statement to the Mitchell report. He was told that so long as he told the truth, there existed the possibility that he could avoid imprisonment. He had no reason to lie. And so he named Roger Clemens.

As I watched the hearing today, I tried my best to remain objective. I looked for body language clues, listened to tones of voice, and tried to calculate which representatives supported the different accounts. I listened to ESPN's talking heads during breaks and immediately following the proceedings. And I still believe that my initial assessment is correct. Roger Clemens is a liar, and he blatantly perjured himself with each passing moment of today's hearing.

The lack of truth present in his testimony certainly wasn't evident in his body language or tone of voice. He sat upright, spoke in a commanding tone, and vehemently denied the allegations against him. He looked and spoke strong. He peppered his answers with assertions that he never cheated, and that he was being dragged through the mud unwillingly by a horrible liar. Unfortunately for Clemens, he had nobody corroborating his story, and the supposed "liar" he was testifying against had pretty much everybody in his corner. Even his best friend and workout partner Andy Pettitte, admitted during his deposition that the statements made by McNamee in the Mitchell Report were true. So too did Pettitte's wife, and former Yankee Chuck Knoblauch. Sadly, only two or three of the representatives present during the hearing mentioned the fact that if the other two witnesses agreed with McNamee's statements, why on earth should they believe Clemens when he says they are lies?

McNamee, on the other hand, did not look like someone who was at all confident in his story. He sat with a frown on his face, his shoulders slunk, and mumbled short answers when questioned. When Clemens took his verbal jabs from various congressmen, he remained poised; McNamee grew smaller and smaller with each successive slight against his character. His credibility could not be any lower as a witness. He talks like an old New York street rat with a thick Long Island accent. He admitted to lying several times before, and actually denied dealing drugs at one point during the hearing. One of the congressmen had to slowly walk him through the question in order to finally get him to admit that yes, he was a drug dealer.

Speaking of those congressmen and women, it was shocking to see party lines drawn when it came to taking sides with either Clemens or McNamee. Democrats favored McNamee, Republicans chose Clemens. It's also interesting to note that Clemens is an outspoken Republican who claims former president George H.W. Bush called him while he was out deer hunting and told him to "stay strong". For the remainder of the afternoon, Republicans giddily commented about how Clemens was "going to heaven", and lobbed questions about what messages he would send to children across the country or what team's hat he would wear on his Hall of Fame plaque.

And yet, for some reason McNamee comes across as more truthful than Clemens. He admitted to being a bad person and to withholding information in order to protect Clemens, a man he deeply admired. His testimony is bolstered by that of Knoblauch, Pettitte, and Mrs. Pettitte. All Clemens did was raise further questions about why he continued to employ McNamee even after discovering he was not qualified to practice medicine (including the supposed B-12 vitamine and Lidocaine shots he received, as well as spinal adjustments and a host of other services McNamee performed for Clemens). He managed to not even fire McNamee after the man injected Clemens' wife with human growth hormone, supposedly behind his back! What's more, McNamee and his dirty lawyers never attempted to "do the committee a favor" by inviting a potential witness (the former nanny) to his house for a visit instead of just handing her contact information over to the committee so that she could be questioned immediately without having her testimony potentially influenced.

As I write this, a new article at ESPN has emerged stating that a facial expert believes Clemens appeared more nervous than McNamee. His "lips were pressed together tight, the corners turned slightly upward, his mouth pulled wide. 'There's only one interpretation,' said Dan Hill, an expert in analyzing facial expressions, 'and that's fear'." You can read the article here, not that I take any stock in something like facial analysis. The side-column on that page links to all the related news stories and Committee Depositions/Interviews with Pettitte, McNamee, Clemens, Knoblauch and Clemens' nanny.

It's a terrible, disgusting situation that has arisen, but one that I am unusually fascinated by as a die-hard baseball fan. With each day new information comes to light that seems to contradict or corroborate one of the two men involved in this legal battle. It will be intriguing to see how the committee decides to proceed from here. There will be no more hearings dealing with baseball's steroids-ridden past, if you believe the one congressman who stated exactly that following today's showdown. I cannot see this coming to any conclusion soon, but you can be certain that I'll remain interested for the duration.

Tags: roger clemens, steroids, hgh, congress, mitchell report, brian mcnamee, andy pettitte, reaction, espn, mp3, download, blog

Johan Santana, LOST, More U2 News and The Worst MP3s Ever Posted

Words cannot express the excitement that coursed through me yesterday when I received a text message from Ian informing me of the pending Johan Santana trade. It was like a shot of adrenaline. My first thought: pitchers and catchers report to camp in about two weeks. On that day, Mr. Santana will for the first time adorn whatever hideous new blue-and-orange Spring Training uniform the Mets have devised as a cheap marketing ploy to sell more jerseys. But today's post is not a missive directed towards money-hungry front office goons, today is about the great "what ifs" that go hand-in-hand with any blockbuster sports trade.

The Hardball Times declare the Mets are the clear winners in this trade, but worry that a rotation of Santana/Martinez/Hernandez/Perez/Maine might not match what San Diego (Peavy/Young/Maddux/Prior) or Arizona (Webb/Haren/Davis/Owings) will have in a potential post-season series...Jayson Stark reminds us that only the Mets, Red Sox and Indians will boast starting rotations that feature three pitchers coming off fifteen-win seasons last year, and that Santana has led his league (a more hitting-dominated league) in fewest base runners allowed per nine innings (WHIP) four years in a row -- and now he'll be pitching in a pitcher's park in a pitcher's league...Rob Neyer guesses that Santana will dominate the National League like Greg Maddux did in the mid-1990s and Randy Johnson did five years later...One interesting fact. When Santana started games for the Twins, the team was 95-47. During the same stretch of time, when anyone else pitched, the team was 325-323. That's a winning percentage of almost .700 versus a winning percentage of .500.

One of the worst pieces of writing I've read as a lead-in for tomorrow night's season premier of Lost is available on the Entertainment Weekly website. But don't bother reading it, it was clearly written by someone without a strong grasp on the English language. The author, who writes like a twelve year old girl reviewing a Backstreet Boys concert, lists several things that we need to keep in mind in order to appreciate this eight-episode shortened season. Too bad his list includes crap like Naomi, "who told the castaways that she was part of a rescue team hired by Penny to find Desmond," but who could be full of crap. Oh, and Locke threw a hunting knife into her back. Yeah, guy. I'm sure her rotting corpse will play a really big role this season. I think we need to pay more attention to the parapsychology aspect of the show, rather than character development or back-stories. Things are going to get pretty crazy, I imagine. I can't wait. Lost!

Apparently U2's official blog posted a link to the story I penned yesterday about how Bono and the bands managers are two turds that weigh pretty much the same amount of Courics. I must say, I have to give some props to whoever runs that website, because they chose to a post a link here in spite of the continued insults I sling at "the biggest shittiest rock band in the world."

Whoever posted this ad on Craigslist's Missed Connections needs to step forward and reveal yourself.

Last but not least, I wanted to share with you some of the worst MP3s ever recorded. The artist? Me. The songs? Horrible. Pathetic. Choose your adjective. The first three songs were recorded for my Boobafellatio 2: This Time It's Personal album, mentioned first in this post. A brief reminder. In 1998 or 1999, there was a January or February snow-day, and I stayed home from school. Sitting on my computer all day, I began to go slightly stir crazy. I decided to improvise a series of songs and put them together as a concept album. All the songs were about devious sexual acts (what else do you expect from a 15 year old boy?). There's a story arc; it's pretty easy to follow. Brenda and Billiam are a married couple, he beats her and gets sent to jail, turns gay, turns back, gets released, wants her back, but she's already turned gay. I recorded the songs into Windows Sound Recorder by playing and singing into my computer monitor's microphone. You can hear me clicking buttons if you listen closely. The album sold almost 20 copies on the now defunct MP3.com website. One of the songs cracked the top thirty power pop tunes on the website's daily chart.

Brenda's Song
Prison Sex (Baby)!
Billiam's Song

The next two songs were recorded shortly after, in the basement of my friend Bret, with my first band, the Ian Weinberger Trio. We decided to do a full-on cover of Weezer's blue album. The whole thing, start to finish. The only problem was, we did it in standard tuning and we weren't very good. We'd never recorded anything before, and it shows. I'd never sung anything before in my life, and it shows. Bret sang "backup vocals," which did not include a single attempt at harmonizing with me. Also, I pretty much learned how to play guitar in order to go through with this project. Ian handled almost every guitar part. The whole thing was a fucking mess. We tried to replicate the cover art by standing in front of a tan-colored wall, then using the paint bucket tool in MS Paint to make it blue. Too bad Ian wore tan shorts. Whoops, no more legs on the cover of our album! The whole thing was a train-wreck from start to finish. You'll love it.

IW3 - The World Has Turned And Left Me
IW3 - Undone (The Sweater Song)
IW3 - Say It Ain't So

I await your comments...

Tags: Johan Santana, Mets, LOST, Entertainment Weekly, U2Log, Bono, Craigslist, Missed Connections, Ian Weinberger Trio, Weezer, Blue Album, Boobafellatio, nostalgia, Say It Ain't So, Undone, The Sweater Song, The World Has Turned And Left Me Here, mp3, blog, download

Raygun Logic

Fans of the Quake franchise, rejoice. It appears that maybe...just maybe...the US Army has a new secret weapon: the ray-gun. That's right, kids, no longer relegated to toy bins across the nation (and James Iha's Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness tour effects rig), the ray-gun is supposedly ready to officially join the arsenal of our nation. "It is a bit like touching a red-hot wire, but there is no heat, only the sensation of heat. There is no burn mark or blister...Its makers claim this infernal machine is the modern face of warfare." Too bad it doesn't have the same effect on people that the one in Quake III Arena had, where people combusted when fired upon. That would make for a much more effective weapon, I imagine.

By the way, I have a lot to do today so this is a short entry of little importance.

Here's a closing thought: the Mets are killing me. I used to think that being a baseball fan on the West Coast was perfect. Eastern games start at 4:00pm here, and end early enough to go out for dinner and then socialize. On the weekends, games start at noon or earlier. Perfect. Unless, of course, your team loses every day and is in danger of missing the playoffs after holding onto first place for the entire season. Sure, the games are on early and end early, but for the past two weeks it just ensures that I'm more pissed off and rude to people when I leave the apartment. Thanks a lot, assholes.

I guess if there is any consolation, it is that if the Mets lose, this will not be the biggest collapse of all time. It will be the second or third biggest. In 1995, the Anaheim were in first place in the AL West by 11 games in August. The team lost key personnel (particularly shortstop Gary DiSarcina) and went on an extended slide during the final stretch run. By season's end, they were in a first-place tie with the surging Mariners, prompting a one-game playoff for the division title. The Mariners laid a 9-1 drubbing on the Angels, clinching the AL West championship and forcing the Angels and their fans to endure yet another season of heartbreak and bitter disappointment. I think that at one point the Angels had 99.99987% odds to win their division. This year, the Mets had something like 98.7777% odds. See, it won't be that bad if we lose!

Tags: Quake, ray-gun, Mets, baseball, West Coast, Anaheim Angels, worst collapse ever, mp3, blog, download

Say Hello To Sports Guy

Allow me to don the cap of sports fan for one day, if you will. Last night's Angels/Yankees game was by far the best baseball I think I've ever seen. I can't recall ever going to a Mets games when they were actually good. I didn't go to any games last year, which was their best season in maybe a decade. I certainly don't remember the game I went to in 1988, which was the last time before 2006 when they won their division. Plus, the Mets never win when I see them in person. Sure, they beat the Cubs 15-9 once, but every other time they get blown out. Remember the game Euribel Durazo hit two home-runs for Arizona? Or the times they lost to the Dodgers and Padres this summer? I never see good baseball games. There was a game I saw at Fenway Park in the early '90s when Mike Greenwell had a game-winning hit for the Red Sox, but my family was already on the way home, so I didn't actually see it. Last night was definitely an all around great experience.



I decided pretty much at the last minute that I would be attending the game. I kept vacillating, asking Fawn repeatedly whether or not I should go. The Angel's website said the game was sold out, I had no cash, and I was bound to sit in Freeway traffic for an absurd amount of time. Nevertheless, something propelled me and off I drove.

I arrived at the stadium (that's a post-game picture) maybe ten minutes before the first pitch. I pulled up to the parking attendant and flashed him my credit card.

"You take these?" I asked him.

"No, cash only. Eight dollars, please." He responded. His name-tag read "Tak."

"I, uh...don't have any cash."

"You didn't bring cash to a baseball game?" He inquired.

"No, I was going to stop right when I got off the freeway and look for an ATM but I got caught in stadium traffic and couldn't pull off--"

"Do you even have a ticket?" Tak asked.

"Yeah," I lied. "It's at Will Call." I lied.

"Go ahead. Next time you go to a baseball game bring cash." Tax scolded me, but then pointed to the parking lot I was to pull into. Funnily enough, Ian echoed an almost identical sentiment when I called him twenty minutes later. He too said, "What kind of idiot doesn't bring cash to a baseball game?" Oh, I don't know, probably the same kind of idiot that jumps into a bears cage.

Parking was easy. I disregarded all the signs saying that the game was sold out, and walked up to the ticket counter. Without hesitation I told the lady I wanted a ticket for tonight's game, and she said something about their being only two tickets left. One was fifty dollars, and one was twenty-six. I took the cheaper one, charged it to my card. I raced inside, found my seat (it was almost directly behind home plate, in the top tier of the stadium), and settled in for the game.







There are several cool things a baseball fan can see when he goes to a game. I'm pretty sure I saw everything I could have wanted to see yesterday evening at Angels Stadium. The list of cool things does not include watching Vladimir Guerrero swing a baseball bat, which is also quite fun. It was a hard-fought, close game that went back and forth several times (cool thing number 1). In the first inning, Alex "Gay Rod" Rodriguez knocked in Derek "Peter Eater" Jeter. Then the Angels got three runs on a bases-loaded double by some guy I'd never heard of. The Yankees clawed back with a run, and then A-Rod hit a two-run homer in the 6th inning (cool thing number 2). This made the score 4-3 Yankees. Then the Angels rallied again, scoring three times to make it 6-4. This necessitated the first audible "Yankees Suck" chant of the evening, but it was certainly not the last (cool thing number 3) Also, they show the Angels' "Rally Monkey" on the scoreboard enough times to make you puke. I kind of fell in love with him. They modified their own Simpsons couch gag where the family convenes in front of the TV and the Rally Monkey is jumping up and down on the couch. Anyway, the Yankees re-took the lead on a Jorge Posade home-run to make it 6-6. In the 10th inning (cool thing number 4), an unheard of rookie won the game with the second base hit of his career and first RBI of his career (cool thing number 5). There were tons of close plays and argued calls (cool thing number 6), the Angels' manager was ejected (cool thing number 7), I got to see Mariano Rivera almost lose the game, and there was a huge fight in the stands maybe five sections away from me where a male and female were eventually thrown to the ground, cuffed, and forcibly dragged from the stadium by police (cool thing number 8).

The game winning run scores, a celebration ensues.

Tags: Angels, Yankees, baseball, game, Anaheim, Mets, Big A, empty wallet, stadium, parking, ticket, photography, travels, Vladimir Guerrero, A-Rod, Alex Rodriguez, "Yankees suck" chant, rally monkey, fireworks, mp3, blog, download