I need to start off with what our deputy managing editor Craig Stanke
would call "some housekeeping issues."
1.Darryl Strawberry was charged
with filing a false police report today. This is ironic (like rain on
your wedding day) because my longtime associate Geran just sent me a
note, asking if the neighborhood crackhead mentioned in my previous
entry is named "Strawberry." I've actually forgotten what her name is --
but since she does have reddish (dare I say, strawberry blonde) hair,
she will henceforth be referred to as "Straw." Now I need to find two
other crackheads to dub "Doc" and "Mookie."
2. Fellow UNC alumnus Abe, who holds the distinction of being the
first-known Rehm of Consciousness reader who isn't one of my relatives
or childhood friends, passes along
this disturbing link and his thoughts on it. Take it away, Abe:
Krechefsky graduates in '69, does NOT go to Vietnam and coaches
every year of his life afterwards. Now he's an expert "beyond the
sport?" How? When did he run that successful Internet business that he
sold to Gates for $1 billion? Or the groundbreaking research that cured
cancer? Or his leadership against apartheid?
WHAT A FREAKING SHILL!!!!
What Abe means, of course, is that Krzyzewski isn't a freaking shill.
He's a leader who happens to shill like a freak.
3. I just got back from a long weekend visiting family outside
Buffalo. Try to contain your jealousy; it’s just how jet-setters like
myself operate. Mad props to my friend Amy, who hooked me up with a few
tickets to the Bills-Falcons game. My dad, brother, uncle and I sat in
front of Atlanta backup quarterback Matt Schaub's parents and wide
receiver Michael Jenkins' cousin. I know she was Jenkins' cousin because
after he caught a touchdown, she said, "THAT'S MY COUSIN! THAT'S MY
COUSIN! THAT'S MY COUSIN! THAT'S MY COUSIN! THAT'S MY COUSIN! THAT'S MY
COUSIN! THAT'S MY COUSIN! THAT'S MY COUSIN! THAT'S MY COUSIN! THAT'S MY
COUSIN!" Also, during pregame warm-ups, she kept yelling to try to get
his attention. Bear in mind, we were sitting in section 317. She could
have shot off a bazooka and not gotten his attention.
Anyway, I'm a Steelers fan, so I didn't have a dog in this hunt. A Bills
fan has implied that because I wasn't cheering for them, I contributed
to their loss. Personally, I think J.P. Losman had more to do with it.
Losman isn't very good at "football," but that's OK. A lot of great
people were lousy QBs. Gandhi had a noodle arm. Mother Teresa had happy
feet in the pocket. They say St. Francis of Assisi couldn't read
defenses.
(Another highlight of the trip -- I go up to buy a movie ticket and say,
"40 Year-Old Virgin." The guy behind the counter replies, "Funny, you
don't look that old." I bet he never gets tired of that joke.)
4. Daniel (of "Sweet Monkey Pie" fame) just sent me this text
message: "NC State's futility on the gridiron made Sports
Illustrated this week. Should that make me this happy?"
The answer is a resounding yes, especially if you enjoy the fact that
the Tar Heels have beaten the Wolfpack in 10 of their last 13 meetings
(yep, in football). But to be fair,
NC State's coach may be distracted by his gargantuan man-boobs, or by
thoughts of how hella-cool he looks in his Oakleys.
Speaking of Tar Heels (as I tend to do), Charlotte Bobcats rookie
Raymond Felton recently
spoke to a group of middle schoolers and told them, "We are going to the
playoffs." He added, "We are a great team."
OK, everybody knows the Bobcats are not going to the playoffs, and they
certainly aren't a great team. Big deal. People lie to kids all the
time, telling them about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth
Fairy and Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq. Who cares?
Well, our own a Tony Mejia seems to care, as he points out at the end of
this column:
"What's uttered and printed is uttered and printed, and there's no
doubt Felton will have to live with his comment all season. It will be
interesting to see what he says about it during All-Star Weekend, when
media from all over the world, some less tactful than others, descend on
Houston."
No doubt he'll have to live with it all season? Please. It's already
been forgotten. Now, if Felton had been a little more honest, then we'd have
a good story ...
Kid: So, are ya'll gonna be, like, good?
Felton: Sweet merciful Jesus, no! We'll be really, really bad. I'm
talking bad like Glitter.
You should spare yourselves years of frustration and start cheering for
the Lakers or Pistons, or maybe jump on the Heat bandwagon.
Kid: So, you know, do you think you'll make the playoffs?
Felton (channeling the spirit of
Jim Mora): "PLAYOFFS?!?!?! Don't talk about playoffs! Are you kidding me?
Playoffs??? I'm just hoping we can win a game!"
Kid: Uh, most of the people who come here to speak have, like, some
kind of message ...
Felton: Hmmm ... OK, how's this: Aim low. Don't bother striving for
lofty goals, because it's a lot of hard work. And at the end of the day,
you're just setting yourself up to be disappointed. If somebody tells
you something is difficult, just nod and go back to playing your X-Box.
This wasn't even a story in Charlotte for more than a day. And yet
Felton is supposedly going to get called out by "media from all over the
world" ... during All-Star Weekend???
(Uh-oh, here comes Jim Mora again ...)
ALL-STAR WEEKEND?!?!?! Don't talk about All-Star Weekend!
As you may have noticed, this is September. All-Star Weekend is in
February. Does anybody really believe that a horde of media -- with a
crazed bloodlust in their eyes, like in
28 Days Later-- will relentlessly attack Felton, peppering him with
questions about his preseason comments to middle schoolers?
"Ray, remember six months ago when you told those kids that the
Bobcats were going to be good? Well, what do you have to say for
yourself now, Mr. Smarty Pants??? How does it feel to disappoint
innocent children, Mr. Liar Liar Pants on Fire??? I bet next time you
visit a school, you won't be so upbeat and optimistic, will you???
I suppose it could happen, but I have a hunch that something more
significant will occur between now and February. Call me crazy.
Whew ... I feel much better now. On to the night note:
No technical issues
Home: Miller's Insider/Yankees
and Red Sox win Mini: Dodd's College Football Insider Mini:
Goldstein's Northeast Division preview Promo Box: Prisco's NFL
Notebook
Column: The Air Force Way will be Bzdelik's Way (8908048) Cover:
Stick to the flight plan (8908116) Mini: Air Force's new coach will
stick to the flight plan (8908171)
Column: Insider: Saints have few comforts of home in Alamodome (8908547)
Cover: Far from home (8908729) Mini: Saints find themselves far from home
in San Antonio (8908818)
Mini: Miller: For AL MVP, I shall not opine before it's time (8909151)
SLOT
Judge's Peek at the Week
About last night ...
Updated: Sep/23/2005 05:13 AM
When I wrote about crackheads yesterday, I neglected to mention my own
recent Close Encounter of the Cracky Kind (now there's a phrase that's
sure to make Mom proud).
A few days ago, I was in front of my house with my trusty weed-whacker
when I was approached by one of the ... uh ... more eccentric
personalities in my neighborhood. She was clearly eager to tell me
something, so I ceased whacking weeds long enough for her to ask if I
had seen the cops recently bust the crackhouse a couple of doors down.
Indeed I had (see the "P" entry -- for police, pain or putz -- in my
alphabet blog below).
So I said, "Yeah, I've had it with those fools."
Her eyes lit up, and she began nodding vigorously. "I know, man, I know!
My old man and me was in the living room when they busted in!"
In other words, when I said I'd had it with those fools, she thought I
meant the cops.
It's little vignettes like this that make life in Hollywood, Fla., so
rewarding. Every day is like a scene out of Boyz n the Hood. I
just regret that I didn't solemnly shake my head and end the
conversation by quoting Doughboy -- "Either they don't know, don't show
or don't care about what's going on in the hood."
Actually, I'm happy that she didn't lift my wallet and take off, because
as we all learned in another
fine Ice Cube movie, "You can't catch no crackhead."
This might be my favorite teammate blow-up since Toni Braxton
single-handedly destroyed the Dallas Mavericks nearly a decade ago. Do
you think Jason Kidd and Jimmy Jackson ever patched things up? You know,
maybe they had a couple of beers and knocked out a karaoke duet of
Un-Break My Heart or -- God help me -- He Wasn't Man Enough? Nah, me either.
(Of course, I should also pay the proper respect to the Karl Malone -
Kobe Bryant feud. Everybody knows that Malone told Kobe's wife that he
was "hunting for little Mexican girls." But I always thought that an
earlier portion of that conversation -- when Vanessa Bryant said Malone
was old enough to be her father, and he replied, "Oh, like your daddy?"
-- was vastly underappreciated. I'm not a big fan of the Mailman, but
you have to admire his hustle.)
Anyway, we all assume that Palmeiro is a cheater who is finally drawing
the public scorn that he so richly deserves ... but what if he's telling
the truth?
Apparently, giving a vitamin injection in the O's clubhouse is no big
deal, like a bong being passed around in the Blazers' locker room. Maybe
Raffy wronged somebody, or maybe somebody just wanted to destroy him out
of pure jealousy. What if -- in the most diabolical act since Iago
planted Desdemona's handkerchief in Cassio's room -- somebody really
did shoot Raffy up with steroids when he thought he was getting
B-12? Then they sat back and smiled as Palmeiro unwittingly ruined his
reputation by appearing before the House Government Reform Committee?
By that point, Palmeiro would have been turned into such a modern-day
Othello, he might as well have begun his testimony by saying,
I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver Of my whole course of
love; what drugs, what charms ...
Wouldn't that just be spectacularly tragic??? Palmeiro would be so
wrongfully accused, he'd make
Andy Dufresne look like he had it comin'. Instead, he's a first-ballot
lock for the Drug Hypocrite Hall of Fame, where his bust will sit next
to Rush
Limbaugh's.
So do I think Raffy was set up? Do I believe he has become a national
laughingstock -- not to mention a pariah in his own locker room --
through absolutely no fault of his own? Do I think he's just a patsy in
a brilliant plot concocted by an evil teammate???
Well, if I can quote Whitney Houston, "Hell to the no!"
On to the night note ...
No technical issues
Home: Scott Miller's MLB Insider
Mini: Palmeiro points finger at Tejada Mini: Clark Judge on Eli Manning
Promo Box: Dennis Dodd on LSU's seniors
NFL: Pete Prisco's NFL Insider (w/ notes) Mini:
Judge on Manning Mini: Prisco/Judge Faceoff
MLB: Scott Miller's MLB Insider Mini: Palmeiro
points finger at Tejada
NCAA Football: Dodd on LSU's seniors
Mini: Dodd's notebook
NCAA Basketball: Doyel on Rutgers
hiring Fred Hill Mini: Doyel on Marquette
(The Venus story moved shortly after 3 a.m. -- it was just a few
paragraphs, so we added it to Thursday's China Open story.)
DEPLOYED:
Prisco's NFL notes (8879991)
BANKED:
Mini: Miller's MLB Insider (8879278)
SLOT:
Judge's Peek at the Week
Prisco's NFL Picks
NEWSROOM:
Dodd's Weekend Watch List
About last night ...
Updated: Sep/22/2005 05:09 AM
I'm not what you'd call a religious man. Fact is, I could use a little
churchin' up. Mired in a spiritual crisis, I often ask myself questions
such as, "What sort of benevolent God would stand idly by while Mariah
Carey resurrects her career?"
Well, maybe God is speaking to me through the local classic rock
station. Yesterday when I pulled into work, the Rolling Stones'
Monkey Man was playing on the radio. Not one of my favorite Stones
tunes, but it was timely because I was planning to post the "Sweet
Monkey Pie" blog. Then when I get in my car at the end of the night ...
you guessed it, Monkey Man again. Now, it's not like you hear
Monkey Man every day -- hearing it twice is just too coincidental. I
guess He likes Sweet Monkey Pie, too.
Yes, I do realize that I'm perilously close to being smote.
The other good thing I heard on the radio yesterday was a panel
discussion on NPR. The host asked -- in light of the mind-boggling costs
the U.S. is incurring in Iraq, the Gulf Coast and a Medicare
prescription drug program that's essentially a $700 billion gift to the
pharmaceutical industry -- can the federal government respond by simply
reducing wasteful spending, as President Bush suggested? One of the
panelists replied, "Well, if I can quote Whitney Houston, 'Hell to the
no!'"
First of all, I think all NPR panelists should be required to quote
crackheads -- Whitney Houston, Marion Barry, whoever -- at least once
per show. Secondarily, I'm mystified that I've been oblivious to this
whole "hell to the no" phenomenon that has swept the nation. The
Atlanta Journal-Constitution says
everybody is using the catchphrase, and yet I had never heard it until
yesterday. Apparently, Houston says it a lot on Being Bobby Brown, which I've never seen because I don't even own a TV anymore.
(As you can see, I've become one of those insufferably pompous people
who don't just say, "I don't watch TV" or "I don't have a TV." No, no --
it's, "I don't even own a TV." Ideally, this should be
prefaced by a loud scoffing sound and a dramatic rolling of the eyes.)
So when it comes to catchphrases, most of the ones I've used lately come
courtesy of The Reverend, the spiritual and ethical heart and soul of
the newsroom. I join my colleague Brian Flood in giving The Reverend a
warm welcome back after his two-week pilgrimage back to the motherland.
See how I start with a religious theme and end with The Reverend? Comin'
full circle, just like Pulp Fiction, except without a gimp. I'm
officially babbling now. On to the night note ...
No technical issues
Home: Prisco/Judge NFL faceoff
Mini: Scott Miller on Lou Piniella Mini: Yankees take AL East lead Promo
Box: Ray Ratto on Barry Bonds
NFL: Prisco/Judge NFL faceoff Mini: Pete Prisco's
Power Rankings
MLB: Scott Miller on Lou Piniella Mini: Yankees
take AL East lead
Autos: Jeff Owens on New Hampshire incidents
Mini: Feud of the Week
BANKED
Mini: Tony Mejia on European Championship (8875426) Column: Clark
Judge on Eli Manning (8876319) Cover: Clark Judge on Eli Manning
(8876502) Mini: Clark Judge on Eli Manning (8876776)
About last night ...
Updated: Sep/20/2005 04:21 AM
Nobody cracks me up like my buddy Daniel, as illustrated by the fact
we've been debating who's the cooler Russell -- Nipsey or Cazzie -- for
about a decade now. So who else would send me an email about an Ini
Kamoze song? Nobody, that's who. Take it away, Daniel:
From a recent blog entry, you quoted
the Rams executive saying, "Tell your source that I'm not a
back-stabber, I'm a (expletive) throat-slasher, and he'll know the
difference before it's all said and done." You do realize that this
could be set to the tune of "Here Comes the Hotstepper" ...
I'm not a back-stabber (Murderer!) I'm a (bleeping) throat
slasher (Murderer!) And he'll know the difference (Murderer!)
'Fo it's said and done (Murderer!)
By the way, when I was trying to find the name of that song (I
thought it was high-stepper), I stumbled across these
misheard lyrics. Good stuff. My favorite is this one:
No, no we don't die Yeah, sweet monkey pie.
I've been looking for a term to replace "sweet fancy Moses" and
"sweet sassy molassy" in my everyday lexicon. I think I've found it.
First of all, when "Rehm of Consciousness: The Soundtrack" hits the
shelves (hopefully in time for Christmas), it clearly needs to have
Samir Suleiman, the Rams exec in question, covering Here Comes the
Hotstepper. You can also count on some Onyx and Wreckx n Effect, in
the wake of last month's Dance 360 entry. It'll make a great
stocking stuffer.
But I digress. I love the fact that "sweet fancy Moses" and "sweet sassy
molassy" are in Daniel's everyday lexicon. Heck, I love the fact that
"lexicon" is in his lexicon. I am also a huge fan of "sweet monkey pie."
Even though I'm not entirely sure what it means, I'm telling you right
now that I will refer to my next girlfriend as "Sweet Monkey Pie" at
least once, just to see what happens. (That's right, ladies -- avoid the
rush, get in line now!)
Of course, when I say something "just to see what happens," it rarely
goes well. In my last entry, I alluded to my hatred of Phish. This stems
from a horrific weekend in Vegas when I attended not one but TWO of
their shows with my Davie Mustaine-looking ex-girlfriend. I was so bored
during the first concert, at one point I gazed up through the smoke at
the retired numbers in the rafters at the Thomas & Mack Center and
called my longtime associate Iron Mike to reminisce about UNLV's great
Augmon-Anthony-Johnson team. We probably talked for 15 minutes or so,
which would have gotten me through about one-third of some pointless
bass solo. Somewhere in Vegas that night, a guy got wiped out at the
blackjack tables and was selling plasma so he could buy enough gas to
get out of town -- and he was at least twice as happy as I was.
Anyway, before we went, this girl was worried that I wouldn't fit in
with the rest of the crowd. It was a valid concern, in the sense that I
hate hippies, but she just kept harping on it. So finally, I said
something to the effect of, "Look, it's no big deal. I just won't shower
for a week, then I'll quit my job, learn how to play hackey-sack and
call myself 'Tree' or some pretentious nonsense like that." Her reaction
taught me a valuable lesson: Not all hippies are nonviolent.
But this incident will seem positively cordial compared to what
will come my way when I whip out "Sweet Monkey Pie" -- especially if
it's meant to provoke a break-up (i.e., "Whoa, you've really packed on a
few pounds, Sweet Monkey Pie!"). This really should have been a lyric in
the Paul Simon classic 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover ...
Hop on the bus, Gus You don't need to discuss much Call her
Sweet Monkey Pie, Guy Then say bye-bye
Had I been hip to this Sweet Monkey Pie phenomenon earlier, I would have
tried it out on at least two girls, in response to their own nonsensical
statements.
One of them once asked me, "What was the name of Puff Daddy's fat
friend?" That's just blatant disrespect for Biggie, which shouldn't have
surprised me, since she was born and raised on the West Coast. Come to
think of it, I have a hunch that girl would have tolerated -- and
possibly even liked -- the Sweet Monkey Pie nickname if I told
her it was a popular term of endearment in the South. And maybe someday
it will be -- but if not, it won't be because Daniel and I didn't try.
The second SMP candidate was a girl who -- after I told her that I was
nearly named "Martin" before my parents wisely opted for "Matthew" --
replied, "Oh, that's too bad -- I could have called you 'Marty-Marty the
One-Man Party.'" I don't think my car even came to a complete stop that
night when I dropped her off.
Since they are both long gone from my social circle, I need to find a
new SMP candidate. I've always believed that while yp.yahoo.com is fine
for when you need to look something up in the yellow pages, what they
really need to develop is pyt.yahoo.com -- a site that gives you
directions to all of the Pretty Young Things in your area. Now I'm
thinking smp.yahoo.com could be even more useful.
Is the night note useful? That's debatable, but here it is ...
No technical issues
Home: Clark Judge on Saints'
loss to Giants Mini: Indians beat White Sox Mini: Ray Ratto on
Terrell Owens Promo Box: Scott Miller's Bull Pennings
NFL: Clark Judge on Saints' loss to Giants Mini:
Pete Prisco's Week 2 grades Mini: Ray Ratto on Terrell Owens
BANKED Mini: Judge on Saints' loss to Giants (8867798) Mini:
Mejia's power forward rankings (8867667) Mini: Autos power rankings
(8866830)
About last night ...
Updated: Sep/16/2005 02:51 AM
As I said yesterday, we're only in Week 2 of the NFL season -- a point
when I should be waving my Terrible Towel, worrying about Big Ben's
suddenly achy-breaky knee and basking in the glow of the season-opening
pummeling of the Titans. Seriously, the Steelers practically scorched
the
'stache right off Jeff Fisher's face. These should be good times for me.
Instead, I find myself pondering the concept of loyalty and continuing
to rue my fantasy draft decision to pass on Willie Parker. A Carolina
man, like myself. Well, like myself, except with the ability to run a
sub-4.2 in the 40. Regardless, the lesson is obvious -- when in doubt,
pick the Tar Heel.
I should have learned this in 2000, when I had the last pick in a March
Madness fantasy draft (yes, I am that big of a dork). With Brendan
Haywood still on the board, I opted not to select UNC's starting center.
The Tar Heels were, after all, 18-13 following their first-round ACC
Tournament exit. Some folks even held the blasphemous opinion that UNC
didn't belong in the Big Dance.
I didn't go that far, but I certainly didn't expect the Tar Heels to
reel off wins over Missouri, Tennessee, Stanford and Tulsa, thus earning
a spot in the Final Four. As Brendan poured in 79 points during that
postseason run, I pondered the error of my ways and swore that I'd never
again pass on a Tar Heel.
Well, that pledge lasted all of five years. I just hope my other solemn
vows (i.e., never attend another Phish concert under any circumstances,
never go back to Tijuana, never again rear-end a traffic court judge's
SUV, etc.) withstand the test of time a little better.
Willie, if you're out there, I'm sorry. Not as sorry as I was when I hit
that judge, but sorry nonetheless.
Anyway, on to the night note:
Home: Dennis Dodd's College
Football Insider Mini: Yankees 9, Devil Rays 5 Mini: Jeff Owens on
the Chase for the Championship
MLB: Scott Miller's Insider Mini: Yankees 9,
Devil Rays 5
We're only in Week 2 of the NFL season, but I'm going out on a limb and
predicting that we already have our quote o' the year, courtesy of Rams
director of football administration Samir Suleiman, who left this
rant on a reporter's voice mail: "Tell your source that I'm not a
back-stabber, I'm a (expletive) throat-slasher, and he'll know the
difference before it's all said and done."
This is my favorite football-related quote since Kellen Winslow's "I'm a
#@!& soldier!" tantrum a couple of years ago. I can't imagine any
scenario that would allow me to do it, but I'm breaking out "I'm not a
back-stabber, I'm a throat-slasher" the first time I have even the
slightest chance.
It's like the phrase "I'm not new to this, I'm true to this." I'm sure
Gang Starr didn't coin it, but it's been seven years since they used it
on New York Strait Talk, and I can't stop saying it. And I'm
not the only one -- here's a quote from a Hurricane Katrina survivor
that appeared last week in the New York Daily News:
"We're staying for the duration," Barthe said. "We're fishermen. We'll
go out and catch some fish and fry it up. We're not new to this; we're
true to this."
Everybody loves a snappy phrase, ideally one that rhymes -- heck, O.J.
Simpson got away with killing two people because Johnny Cochran whipped
out, "If it doesn't fit, you must acquit!"
If I ever murder somebody -- and Jodi, this means you -- I am definitely
basing my defense on a rhyme. I'll probably go with the title of a Snoop
Dogg album -- either Da Game Is To Be Sold, Not To Be Told or
Paid Tha Cost To Be Da Boss.
One last thing -- big props to Flood for coming up with the "Brooklyn
has 99 problems, but a team ain't one" headline that I used in the promo
box for Tony Mejia's column about the
Nets (whose owners include Jay-Z) moving to Brooklyn.
On to the night note ...
Technical problem: Baseball recaps didn't have annotations
Home: Roger Clemens' emotional
win Mini: Dodd's college football notes Mini: Judge-Prisco faceoff
NFL: Judge-Prisco faceoff Mini: Judge on A.J.
Smith Mini: Prisco's Power Rankings
NBA: Mejia on the Nets Mini: Judge on A.J. Smith
Mini: Prisco's Power Rankings
Mini: Chasing answers this weekend in New Hampshire (8846315)
Mini: Brooklyn has 99 problems, but a team ain't one (8845846)
Cover: Prisco on the dearth of black centers (8846951)
Column: Scarcity of black centers in NFL remains a mystery (8846923)
About last night ...
Updated: Sep/11/2005 04:49 AM
As we shut things down for the night, there's still a palpable buzz in
the newsroom after today's long-awaited clash of college football
titans. I am, of course, referring to North Carolina (my alma mater) and
Georgia Tech (my former employer). Drunk with power as the night editor,
I had seven TVs in the newsroom tuned to the game, in which my Tar Heels
were apparently beaten by some sort of
hobbit. Fortunately, I wasn't watching when Matt Baker threw the
interception that essentially ended UNC's upset bid, as I was at the
front desk picking up my order of Chinese food.
I also understand that there was some sort of
game in Ohio that mildly interested a few people. It started off well --
with Jack Arute asking an incredulous Jim Tressel who he planned to
start at quarterback ... right after Tressel had said that Justin Zwick
was starting. I didn't catch the postgame interview, but I'm guessing
that Arute asked Mack Brown what the keys to the second half would be.
Speaking of Brown, I enjoyed his quote in
Dennis Dodd's column about the game: "I think you never silence critics.
Critics are critics because they're called critics and that's what
they're paid for."
I mean, is there something in the water in Austin? Brown sounds like
another famous Texan who once observed, "I know what I believe. I will
continue to articulate what I believe and what I believe -- I believe
what I believe is right."
On to the night note:
Home: Dennis Dodd on Texas' win
at Ohio State Mini: Kim Clijsters wins U.S. Open women's title
Mini: Clark Judge's NFL Peek at the Week
Tennis: Kim Clijsters wins U.S. Open women's title
About last night ...
Updated: Sep/09/2005 04:31 AM
The NFL season kicked off tonight. You know what that means: Fantasy
football season kicked off tonight. I'm no corporate shill, but CBS
SportsLine.com clearly has the best Fantasy football in the business.
(OK, maybe I'm somewhat of a corporate shill.)
My favorite part of our Fantasy product is the GameCenter, where you can
follow the live scoring for all of the matchups in your league. Thanks
to the GameCenter, I was able to watch in real-time tonight as Eastbound
& Down -- the team I meticulously assembled after hours of painstaking
research and careful contemplation -- was systematically dismantled by
Courtney Anderson, a tight end who my savvy colleague George Maselli
added yesterday as an undrafted free agent.
I had never even heard of Courtney Anderson before he caught two
touchdowns tonight -- one more than my first-round pick Randy Moss (who
actually had a big night, with 23.5 points). Between Anderson and Deion
Branch catching a TD, George's formidable "To The House" squad is
already well on its way to handing my boys a painful defeat. I'm just
hoping to cover the spread at this point.
One other thing: I agree fully with
Brian Flood when he says that
Dave Salinas' blog about the Bears going 11-5 is "absolutely
bonkers." As Gwen Stefani might say, that is bananas -- B-A-N-A-N-A-S!
On to the night note:
Home: Clark Judge on Patriots
vs. Raiders Mini: Chris Carpenter gets win No. 21 Mini: Dennis
Dodd's college football insider
NFL: Clark Judge on Patriots vs. Raiders Mini:
Prisco/Judge dueling predictions
Tennis: Federer and Hewitt advance to U.S. Open
semis
Judge's "peek at the week" is in newsroom; he's adding a scout's take on
Priest Holmes in the morning.
ABC, easy as 1-2-3
Updated: Sep/02/2005 03:34 PM
My longtime associate Jodi is in the habit of occasionally -- and for no
good reason -- sending me text messages that say, "C IS 4 CRUNK!!!" I
can take issue with many things about Jodi (her obsession with guys in
track suits would be a good place to start, especially since she signed
me up for the "Growing Up Gotti" e-mail newsletter), but I must admit
that she's right about this. Someday when I'm teaching my kids the
alphabet, I'll have a flash card that says "C is for Crunk," illustrated
with a picture of Lil Jon and possibly the Ying Yang Twins.
Here's what the other flash cards might say:
A is for accent wall. Not only does my house now have one, I'm
actually excited about it. You can officially start worrying
about me now.
B is for baguette -- the color that my sister painted the
aforementioned accent wall, and also the nickname Jodi assigned to an ex
who was of French descent. For the record, I despised this guy (a rock
fountain maker) from the minute he offered me some vegetarian nachos and
said, "They're totally GRUBBIN'!!!"
C, as we can all agree, is for crunk. Let's move on.
D is for Duchesse De Bourgogne, a Flemish sour ale that might be
my new favorite beer. As Ferris Bueller said, "If you have the means, I
highly recommend picking one up."
E is for Eastbound and Down, my fantasy football team. I always
-- ALWAYS -- pick running backs in the first two rounds. Except this
year, when I was sitting at No. 10 and couldn't bring myself to take
Corey Dillon, so I picked Randy Moss. Then I got Terrell Owens at No.
15. And Reggie Wayne at No. 34. So I may have three of the top-five
fantasy wideouts, a strategy that may prove effective in a league that
rewards long touchdowns. But my running backs are a complete mess. Have
you seen any recent pictures of
Courtney Love? If my wideouts are Jessica Simpson (in the sense that
they're appealing, not that they're idiots), my running backs are
Courtney Love. I don't even want to talk about it.
F is for flashlight, which I needed while writing this entry,
since I didn't have any electricity for a few days after Hurricane
Katrina. I actually used a pen and paper, which must be how bloggers
worked in olden times. In all seriousness, this was my first hurricane
as a Floridian, and we were extremely lucky. A brief power outage is
nothing compared to what the Gulf Coast is going through. Go here to
support the disaster relief effort.
G is for gasoline prices. Call me crazy, but when you elect an
oil man (or the ne'er-do-well son of an oil man) as President of the
United States, and the guy's family has done billions in business with
the Saudis, is it really a shock that gas prices have increased 40
percent over the past year, and experts say we're soon headed to
$4 a gallon? Or when his energy bill gives $2.6 billion in tax breaks for
oil and gas companies -- just a couple of weeks after Exxon Mobil Corp.
announced that its second-quarter profit rose 32 percent to $7.64
billion? Royal Dutch Shell announced a 34 percent increase in
second-quarter profit to $5.24 billion. ConocoPhillips' profit rose 51
percent to $3.14 billion. See a trend here? And Bush is telling us not
only can oil companies not lower gasoline prices, but they need billions
in tax breaks? Please. But of course, none of this surprises me
in the least. It would be like putting R. Kelly in the White House, then
being stunned when it's suddenly legal to pee on 14-year-olds.
H is for the Heat. I don't understand why Miami is all giddy
about acquiring Antoine Walker and Jason Williams. To me, this is akin
to intentionally rolling around in poison ivy. Like Stephon Marbury,
Shareef Abdur-Rahim and (I hate to say it) Vince Carter, 'Toine and
White Chocolate have never won anything as pros. They're talented
individuals, but they don't make their teammates better.
J is for my man Jaroslav (a.k.a. Jay), proprietor of my favorite
local hangout, the PRL Euro Cafe. The PRL has an awe-inspiring selection
of European beers, and in my time there, I've learned to say the
following phrases in Polish: "Hello," "I feel good," "Cheers," "I'll
have another beer" and "Give me a kiss." So, I'm pretty much ready to
visit Warsaw.
K is for Kicknick. Way back in 1999, my longtime associate Iron
Mike came into the office with a flyer that posed a simple question:
"When did we become too cool to play kickball?" That weekend, two teams
met in Atlanta's Piedmont Park to get some kicks and drink some beer. By
contrast, the recently-held Kicknick VII was a full-fledged charity
event with 16 teams, refreshments, awards and a post-tournament patio
party. Even you missed out on the fun, you can still contribute to the
fight against Lou Gehrig's Disease.
L is for Le Tub, the local dive that GQ recently said
has the best burger in America. Ever since, this great little
hole-in-the-wall on the Intracoastal Waterway has been overrun by
SUV-driving yuppies asking for takeout menus (yeah, right) and trying to
pay by credit card, oblivious to the "CASH ONLY" signs. Now it takes two
hours to get a burger or some gumbo, and the staff's mood alternates
between suicidal and openly hostile.
M is for
Mustaine, as in Dave. I busted Jodi's chops for the whole "baguette" thing
... well, that guy happened to be the roommate of one of my exes, a girl
who bore a passing resemblance to the former frontman of Megadeth. It
wasn't the proudest period of my life.
N is for North Carolina. I'm not sure if you heard anything about
it, but my alma mater won the national championship a few months back,
once again proving my theory that Duke (pardon me, "dook") sucks. The
night of the game, I was working on the sports copy desk at the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution. You can guess who wrote the "Glory,
Heel-elujah!" headline that appeared in the next day's paper.
O is for over/under. I've been trying to rally the newsroom folks
to do a pool based on the cholesterol of our 24-year-old colleague Brian
Flood, who recently went for a blood test. The latest line out of Vegas
puts the over/under at 260. The smart money's on the over.
P is for police, as three cop cars pulled up two doors down from
my place as I was writing this. Because I was bored and nosy, I wanted
to check out the commotion, but I couldn't find the keys to my deadbolt.
So I climbed out my living room window, banging my head and nearly
rendering myself unconscious in the process. So "p" could also be for
"pain" (or "putz").
Q is for ... uh ... well, the Quebec Nordiques don't exist
anymore, and I don't have much to say about Qyntel Woods ... so how
about a gratuitous plug for my longtime associate Kathy Quinn (a.k.a.
"Kathy Quinn Medicine Woman"), who makes really
great candles. Go buy some. Yes, I like accent walls and handcrafted
candles. You are now permitted to panic about me.
R is for rasslin'. My longtime associate Marc (a.k.a. "The
Freak") will soon make his ring debut. Not that wrestling is staged or
anything, but the plan calls for Marc to be a heckler in the audience.
Abdullah the Butcher will drag him to the ring and bodyslam him onto
hundreds of thumbtacks. Good times, good times. Maybe it was his
curly-toed boots or maybe it was his enormous man-boobs, but as a kid
watching the National Wrestling Alliance in my PJ's on Saturday
mornings, nobody was scarier than Abdullah the Butcher. Even
today, the prospect of The Madman from the Sudan (who owns Abdullah the
Butcher's House of Ribs & Chinese Food, a fine dining establishment in
Atlanta) getting his hands on me would send me into therapy for years.
For Marc, it's like Christmas, his birthday and winning the lottery all
rolled into one. The man has issues.
S is for Scarface. My longtime associate Iron Mike
recently accepted a new job, and since his current employer is pretty
much evil, I am begging him to send this as his farewell e-mail: "What
you lookin' at? You all a bunch of &#%!@. You know why? You don't have
the guts to be what you wanna be! You need people like me. You need
people like me so you can point your &#%!@ fingers and say, 'That's the
bad guy.' So ... what that make you? Good? You're not good. You just
know how to hide, how to lie. Me, I don't have that problem. Me, I
always tell the truth. Even when I lie. So say goodnight to the bad guy!
Come on! The last time you gonna see a bad guy like this again, let me
tell you. Come on! Make way for the bad guy! There's a bad guy comin'
through! Better get outta his way!"
T is for The Carolina Way and The Last Amateurs, the books I'm currently reading. Apparently, I don't read enough about
sports in my day-to-day work.
U is for "Use Me." I've been listening to a Bill Withers CD for
the past few days, and I'd have to think long and hard before I could
name three better songs -- by any artist -- than "Use Me." It mystifies
me that most people's exposure to Withers' work is limited to the Gap
commercial a few years back that featured "Lovely Day."
V is for Vernand Morency. I'm going to geek out and talk about
fantasy football again. I picked up this Texans backup as an undrafted
free agent, and while I'd never wish an injury on anybody ... yeah, I'm
pretty much wishing an injury on Domanick Davis. Nothing serious or
career-threatening -- just a minor, nagging thing that keeps him on the
bench. Does that make me evil? Yes? Then make way for the bad guy!
There's a bad guy comin' through!
W is for Willie Parker. He's not on my fantasy team, but he's a
North Carolina alumnus who will probably be the Steelers' starting
running back in their season opener. In other words, as Napoleon
Dynamite might say, he's pretty much my favorite player ever. I nearly
wept last week when this guy -- the third-string tailback on a UNC team
that went 2-10 in his senior season -- busted a 51-yard run on his first
play from scrimmage in a preseason game against Washington. I'm about
this close to buying a Willie Parker jersey.
X is for Xavier, the fake name that I blurted out when some
middle-age drunk wouldn't leave me alone in Kelly's Pub the other night.
It was the first name that sprang to mind, and it seemed more polite
than saying, "Nevermind what my name is. It's Sunday night. Go home to
your kid." It was also a subtle reference to my favorite line in
Singles: "You dare to rip the X-Man." In the history of basketball player
cameos, I'd rank Xavier McDaniel's appearance in that movie behind only
Kareem's in Airplane! And you could make a case that Kareem's
role is too big to be considered a cameo.
Y is for, "You know, Matt, there's more to owning a house than
just buying it." I was recently informed this by my niece ... who is 11
years old.
Z is, of course, for the immortal Adrian Zmed, the former co-star
of T.J. Hooker, host of Dance Fever and fierce
competitor on Battle of the Network Stars. Let's pretend for a
moment that you haven't been obsessively following Mr. Zmed's career. If
that were the case, you'd have no idea that this year alone, he has lent
his considerable talents to Sex Sells: The Making of Touche and
SHIRA: The Vampire Samurai. Somebody's gonna be using Oscars as bookends
after those two performances!
About last night ...
Updated: Sep/02/2005 03:04 AM
This note is supposed to be about tonight's tomfoolery, but I just can't
ignore yesterday's story about Rafael Palmeiro using earplugs in a ridiculous attempt to tune
out the boos he's been hearing lately.
Poor Raffy says he has never been booed so much, and he just doesn't
know how to handle it. The answer to his plight can be found in the
squared circle -- that's right, professional wrestling -- where legions
of other steroid-enhanced athletes switch from "face" to "heel" and vice
versa as easily as normal people change their socks.
In Raffy's case, he won't be able to turn into a "face" -- a good guy --
unless he hits an even more detested player with a metal chair. This is
impractical, although most of us would enjoy seeing Palmeiro go to work
on Barry Bonds' knee.
So instead of wearing earplugs and offering absurd denials, Palmeiro
needs to fully embrace his "heel" persona. As an homage to Hulk Hogan's
transformation into the "Hollywood" Hogan character, he should make sure
"Voodoo Chile" is playing every time he's introduced and play air guitar
with his bat as he walks to the plate. Ideally, I'd also like to see him
start riding a Harley and wearing a black-and-white bandana.
Actually, even Hogan's nauseating "Hulkamania" shtick would translate
well onto the diamond. Instead of sliding into home, Raffy should do
leg-drops. If the O's are making a dramatic comeback, he should start
"hulking up" in the dugout. Instead of trying to tune out the boos, he
should cup his hand to his ear and encourage the crowd to get louder.
There is no downside here. Nobody likes Palmeiro right now, and his
jerseys are just sitting on store shelves, gathering dust like Ruben
Studdard's StairMaster. But if he becomes a heel, he'd be like
baseball's Dennis Rodman -- half of the fans would still hate him, and
there's nothing he can do to win them back. But the other half would
love him, because sometimes it's fun to cheer for a bad guy who revels
in his badness. Within a few months, he'll have his own show on MTV and
he'll be hooking up with ... well, Carmen Electra and Madonna are off
the market, so I'll say Tara Reid. Substance abuse doesn't seem to be a
big turnoff for her.
I just think if he's going to be stuck with a heel persona anyway, he
might as well have fun with the role. As Trent says in Swingers,
"I don't want you to be the guy in the PG-13 movie everyone's
really hoping makes it happen. I want you to be like the guy in the
rated R movie."
Anyway, on to the night note ...
No technical issues
Home: Dennis Dodd on Steve
Spurrier's debut at South Carolina Mini: Angels join A's atop AL West
Mini: Scott Miller's Insider Mini: Clark Judge's NFC West preview
NFL: Clark Judge's NFC West preview Mini: Pete
Prisco's Chicago camp tour
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