The Cream, The Clear and a Broken Cell Phone

<<< Barry Bonds' rookie card.












The long holiday weekend was nothing if not eventful. And not all of it good.

Work, as usual, sucked. Plenty of waiters canceling, showing up late, or not showing up at all.

Sunday I actually had to work a party, which is rare. I spent most of the day running 80-some-odd waiters at a VIP wedding in Oakhurst, next to Deal and Long Brach. At the same time, I had to deal with all the other bullshit that was going on at the other jobs around the Tri-State area.

The shindig, which easily cost mid-six-figures, was at a mansion on the beach. There were about 1,000 guests, and I think 90 percent were Middle Eastern -- though Jews, so I wasn't worried about exploding wedding cakes, though I'm sure my bartenders weren't tipped.

Upon departure from Little Syria, I trekked cross-state to scenic Mount Laurel, to the home of a man Jersey Girl often refers to as "The Professor." Ironic, though, that in my case, when I refer to him in the same way, I mean it, since at one point he was actually my professor during my freshman year of college. And it was he who subsequently hooked me up with the gig at the Courier News.

Anyway, in the nearly 10 years I have known him, I have seen him intoxicated on many, many occasions. But in all that time I have never seen him even close to as drunk and out of control as he was Sunday night. I won't get into the gory details here, but some of you were there, so feel free to support my claim in comment.

Now, perhaps the biggest tragedy to strike during Sunday's craziness was that at some point, me cell phone decided that if I want it to work properly I would no longer be permitted to close it (I have one of those flip-phones). If I close it, it freezes or shuts down, forcing me to open it up and take the battery out, put it back in and then re-boot the phone.

This sucks.

If you know how much I'm on the phone with work, and that I pretty much have to carry it with me everywhere I go, even if it's just to the bathroom for a quick whiz, not being able to close it or put it in my pocket is a major inconvenience. I refuse to pay for a new phone. Let me company pay for it.

Monday was a nice day at my mother's house, as we had a BBQ in honor of mine and my sister's birthday -- they're a week apart (mine is today, 5/31). So that was nice, seeing family and the few friends I was permitted to invite (my mother limited us to four apiece, including spouses and significant others). One of those friends, Levi, who is also my boss, was there, so though I get shitty cell reception at my mom's house, I let him handle most of the calls on a day that also went to shit with latenesses, cancellations, etc.

Thankfully, after the stress of the last three weekends, this weekend is quiet at work, thanks to the Jewish holiday of Shavuot.

We get back to hell on Monday.


Some other news and notes from over the weekend:

Todd may have gotten me the best damn gift I have ever received when he presented me with a karaoke machine this evening. I would like to recognize his girlfriend, whose general idea it was.
But not only that, he also gave me eight karaoke CDs chock full of tremendous tunes, ranging from Guns 'n Roses and Poison to The Steve Miller Band and, yes, even Kelly Clarkson.

A fine, fine job by Mr Todd A.


Lastly, a couple of noteworthy deaths.

Former NFL fullback Craig "Ironhead" Heyward , who played mostly for the Saints, left the building Saturday, succumbing to a recurring brain tumor.

Heyward's death, for me, is sad, not only for his cool nickname, but because Heyward grew up in Passaic, NJ, a place where I spent much of my teenage years and early 20s.

After moving to Hillside from Brooklyn, NY when I was 15, my friend, Sam, who used to live in my old neighborhood before moving to Passaic some years earlier, ended up in my high school in Elizabeth.

Through Sam, I met most of the friends I still had today, who lived in Passaic, too. So when Heyward ended up in the NFL, many of us knew him from the Third-Ward Park.

Another noteable death was that of actor Paul Gleason, who starred, in among other things, Die Hard (as the dickhead cop in charge at the scene), the mysterious Clarence Beeks in the Eddie Murphy/Dan Aykroyd classic "Trading Places," and, most importantly, as Principle Richard "mess with the bulls and you get the horns" Vernon in "The Breakfast Club."

That is all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get my stash out of Bender's locker.

Unholy matrimony

I would like to thank Jersey Girl for tipping me off to this.

I mean, I love Axl as much as the next guy, but does this cat REALLY want him at his wedding?
Now, if it were me, I wouldn't care. I love debauchery. Shocking displays of bodily functions, bridesmaids brawls, and anything else Ziggy Freud couldn't properly diagnose would be sadistically entertaining enough for me to make it worth while. Hell, I got fired up in 2002 when the Wachovia Center in Philly turned into a firery riot when Axl and his new G'nR buddies bailed on a concert. I had driven all the way to Philly in the snow, I was gonna see a show, one way or another.

But let's get real. Even is this cat DOES manage to get Axl to commit to playing his wedding, as I told Jersey Girl, he's got a better chance at Axl FOLEY showing up than he does at seeing W. Axl Rose.

Quick hits, short hops and rip jobs for the clowns, shills and yahoos

Some specific thoughts on random subjects from over the weekend and the days ahead.


*** Willie n' Billy ***

Willie Randolph committed his first major boner since becoming Mets manager when he brought closer Billy Wagner into a game NY-N led 4-0 in the ninth inning Saturday.

This is a simple case of Willie; a) not knowing his player and his tendencies; and b) wanting to beat his mentor, Joe Torre, and his former squad so badly that he violated a managerial no-brainer.

Wagner had pitched the night before and the Mets had another game Sunday, with a three-game set coming up against a DIVISION RIVAL, Philadelphia, not to mention the team closest to the Mets in the standings. So instead of Randolph saving his closer for when the game was really on the line, he decided it was more important to try and shut the door on a team that's not even in the same effing league, let along division.

Duaner Sanchez breezed through the eighth inning, throwing just nine pitches. You're telling me he couldn't come out to, at least, start the ninth?

And let's say sometime between the time Sanchez got Jeter to ground out to end the eighth and the time the Mets took the field for the top of the ninth, Sanchez, say, got locked in the bathroom, or abducted by aliens, why bring in Wagner?

You should have heard me yelling at the TV. Jorge Julio and Pedro Feliciano were warming up before Wagner even threw a pitch. Why not bring in one of them to start the frame and have Wagner warm up in case there's, oh, I don't know, AN ACTUAL FUCKING SAVE SITUATION!!

Wagner has proven that he is not at his best unless the game is on the line. He doesn't focus. He gets complacent on the mound when his adrenaline isn't at full blast, leading to things like the complete inability to throw a ball anywhere near the strike zone. It was an asinine move by Randolph to bring him in, and an even more ridiculous move to leave him in there when he started falling behind every hitter and handing out walks like it was free cheese at the A&P.

Somewhere, Grady Little is smiling

Still, a satisfying series victory over the evil empire.


*** Barry, and I don't mean Dawson ***

Barry Bonds, to quote Jersey Girl, is "an assclown."

He is rude. He is arrogant. He is surly. He is a juice head.

But until someone proves he has done steroids in the last two years, he is not a cheater.

Nothing made me happier Saturday than the fact that Bonds' tying Babe Ruth at 714 homers was a mere footnote on an otherwise eventful baseball day. Between the Mets-Yankees debacle and Michael Barrett giving A.J. Pierzynski a nice crack upside the head, not to mention Barbaro's sad day at the Preakness, Bonds' homer was the fourth story at best on most sportscasts.

But until 2004, steroids and other performance-enhancing drugs were not against baseball's rules.

Are Bonds and other steroid users' numbers tainted? Absolutely. Does he and his ilk compare favorably with those who came before him and produced without chemical assistance? Not a chance.

But Bonds is still an amazing baseball player and an amazing home run hitter. It has been estimated that anywhere from 30-70 percent of Major Leaguers have used performance enhancers over the last 15-some-odd years, so in that sense the playing field was somewhat level.

I am glad its been banned and I'm glad the truth has come out about these guys, but I cannot call them cheaters.

Oh, and I also believe Pete Rose should be in the Hall of Fame.


*** Tales from first base ***

While the overall turnout at this Sunday morning's softball game was weak, it did mark the return of Local Shill after a two-week absence, as well as the season debut of Jersey Girl at the old ball field.

After no batting practice, and a terrible looking swing at the first pitch she saw -- hitting leadoff for team Sandman in a 5-on-5 half field contest at Palsy Park -- Jersey Girl went on to have quite the day. She collected, I believe, four hits, scored several runs, and played error-free ball at first base.

As for some of the regulars, Joe Pendleton was a no-show for the second-straight week, as was Todd, who complained of a sinus headache and a fractured vagina.

My day -- though thoroughly unspectacular at the plate and in the field -- was marred by the constant ringing of my cell phone and fucking up of employees all over the tri-state area, forcing my early departure from said softball contest.

That brings me to....


*** Round 'em up, ship 'em out ***


I have always somewhat straddled the fence when it came to the whole immigration debate.

Sure, I see the problem with the constant overflow of immigrants coming here, taking jobs from Americans, blah, blah, blah.

But, then again, weren't we all immigrants at one point? Unless you are of Native American Indian decent, your lineage originated elsewhere, too. So don't be a damn hypocrite.

In my current business, the fine waiter staffing business, immigrants are essential. We wouldn't be able to fill orders without them. Most of them are hard-working, they all work relatively cheap, and it allows us fat, over-privileged Americans to sit back and be served, and some of us to make a few yen on the sweat of these aliens.

Probably about 90 percent of our employees are immigrants, many illegal, from every Latin country and many from points all across Eastern Europe and the Middle East.

After Sunday's day from hell, I'm ready to put 'em all on a boat and ship 'em half way across the ocean (yes, I said halfway. Let the fuckers drown).

No-shows, cancellations, extreme lateness, fights with guests, kitchen staff and caterers. Sunday had it all. By the time I went to bed last night I was more than ready to back to the Courier News for $10 an hour.

Thank God for cannabis.


*** It's Like rai-ain, on your wedding day ***
(if you haven't seen this week's installment of The Sopranos, skip this section)


We all know how well-written The Soprano is. But writer David Chase reached the height of irony Sunday, whether by accident or intentional.

Alanis Morissette would be proud.

We all kind of figured things would end badly for Vito Spatafore, who was outed as gay earlier this season when he was spotted at an S&M club, and subsequently fled to the comfort of foliage and Johnny Cakes in New Hampshire.

Upon returning to New Jersey and holding up in a motel room, Vito was ambushed by Phil Leotardo and his goons, before being beaten to death and left with a pool cue shoved up his ass.

But did you notice where Phil was hiding when the ambush first began?

The closet.

Very interesting.



*** This Chick hates her Bush ***

Dixie Chicks lead singer Natalie Maines is at it again.

After suffering serous backlash within the music industry and beyond for telling the crows at a London concert in 2003 that she was "Embarrassed George W. Bush was from Texas," Maines, this week, took back the apology she issued at the time.

Now I am a huge fan of the Dixie Chicks and their music, in fact their new album, "Taking the Long Way" is set for release tomorrow, and should be arriving via mail from my pre-order at Amazon.com at my door any minute now. In fact, their first single off this latest offering, "Not Ready to Make Nice," addresses the controversy and the reaction

Further, I agree. Bush is an idiot, and a disgrace to Americans. (I will admit I voted for him, but that was purely for entertainment value and the guarantee of quality late-night programming).

But where Maines erred was in that, sure, we have free speech here and are not only permitted, but encouraged, to criticize our leaders when we feel they aren't getting it done. But when you do it in front of an audience that is not American and on foreign soil, it makes us all look bad.

It's like ripping your teammates to the media.

Like it or not, Bush is our president. And we need to have a united front to the rest of the world that we stand behind him. We will deal with family issues within the family. We should not be airing our dirty laundry to the rest of the world.



*** Idol Wor$hip ***


American Idol's fifth season comes to an end this week and if all goes well, it should be another nice payday for yours truly.

When the top 24 were set back in January, I put down a few shekel on the person I thought would win. Taylor Hicks is in the final and is the favorite. Should things shake out like I expect, I will have correctly picked and wagered on the winner for the third time in four years (I didn't watch any of season one or three).

Cha-ching!

Some things never change

Oh, Axl. Sweet, sweet Axl. Trouble just seems to find him.

Whether it's inciting riots in St. Louis, or causing them by his absence in Philly, W. Axl Rose -- AKA William Bailey -- just can't escape it.

Oh, yeah, and he hasn't released any original material in 15 years!

I still love you, Axl


NEW YORK (May 20) - It was a one-two encounter between Axl Rose and Tommy Hilfiger. The rocker and designer capped a Thursday evening out at a new club called The Plumm in Manhattan's Chelsea neighborhood with midnight fisticuffs.
"There was an issue between the two of them," Plumm owner Noel Ashman told The Associated Press.
The scuffle reportedly started after the Guns N' Roses front man moved the drink of Hilfiger's girlfriend, Dee Ocleppo.
"I moved his girlfriend's drink so it wouldn't spill," Rose told the Los Angeles radio station KROQ on Friday. "It was the most surreal thing, I think, that's ever happened to me in my life."
According to the 44-year-old singer, Hilfiger, 55, smacked him in the arm and told him to put the drink back.
"He just kept smacking me," Rose said.
Attempts to reach Hilfiger or a representative were not immediately successful.
Rose was there to play a surprise set for "Rent" actress Rosario Dawson for her 27th birthday party.
At the time of the dustup, The Plumm was packed with a celebrity crowd including Lenny Kravitz, Mickey Rourke, Kid Rock, Peter Beard, Molly Simms, Wentworth Miller, Ann Dexter Jones, Lydia Hearst and Damon Dash.
Rose did perform, and dedicated the song "You're Crazy" to "my good friend Tommy Hilfiger."

Losing my Religion

Suddenly, despite my orthodox Judaic upbringing, I have found myself really into Christian pop music.

Don't tell my mother, I've caused her enough t'suris over the years.

I have always enjoyed those late-night advertisement for those Christian pop compellation CDs, just hearing bits and pieces of those songs, I dug what I heard. It's good shit. Nice, simple, melodic, enthusiastic, heart-felt music, even if the subject matter isn't something I put any stock in.

Still, I was never very motivated to further explore the genre.

A couple of months ago, my brother emailed me a song by Michael W. Smith. You may remember him, he had a Top 10 hit on the mainstream Billboard chart in 1990 with "Place in this World," and is one of the most popular Christian music artists in the world.

After that, my brother and I downloaded many Christian pop tunes from the Internet, and found a few gems, including some lesser-known Amy Grant tunes -- she of the late 80s hits like "Baby, Baby" and "I will Remember You." These days, I'm told, she has been blackballed in the Christian pop world because she was found banging some cat behind her husband's back.

Anyway, last week, I struck pay dirt.

While working a phone shift at ye old C-N, something caught my eye, (I'm there filling in after some dame quit abruptly after one day. I had to take, and pass, another effing drug test, which sucked, but I managed). While sitting at Mosher's old desk, I noticed in the working space of one Bob Makin, the Courier's loveable entertainment editor, a "Wow hits" CD, a double album filled with Christian pop hits.

Score!

I quickly sent Bub May-Kin a message, inquiring as to his plans for said CD -- he always gets a ton of shit sent to him by various record labels and they usually end up in the Wish Book drawer. When I saw him the following day he offered to burn for me not only the double-CD I saw on his desk, but three other double discs.

He's a nice man.

Cheaper than a tab of acid

For a quick musical, gyrating trip down memory lane, check this cat out.

Some funny shit

Nudie Magazine Day

"A new independent baseball league plans to bring a grass-roots mentality back to parts of the South and Midwest. The Continental Baseball League will begin play in 2007. Tickets will be priced at $5-$12, and every team will play Sunday doubleheaders.
While nostalgia will be important, the CBL plans to get a little crazy in the seventh inning. In that inning, the first home run hit by the trailing team will count double -- a two-run homer will score four runs, a grand slam will score eight." -- from USA Today Sports Weekly, May 10-16, 2006


To quote the great Adam Sandler in that most classic cinematic masterpiece Billy Madison, "Hahahahahahahaha, SHUT UP!!!!"

I would love to throw out some twirlly six-syllable adjective to express my displeasure here, but the best I can do under these most flabbergasted of circumstances is, simply, THIS IS SOME BULLSHIT!

For starters, I take serious offense to them calling this league the "Continental BASEBALL League." An eight-run homer? This isn't baseball. It's something else. Pick a different name. "Baseball" is already taken!

Besides, didn't MTV already cover this shit with their annual Rock 'n Jock softball turd?

Teams, especially those in the minor league, and even more-so in the independent leagues, have always tried to come up with the wackiest shtick to attract fans. But none of these stunts have had an effect on the game itself. That has always remained pure.

I mean, sure, we've had the midget pinch-hitter, Eddie Gadel, or the one-armed outfielder, Pete Gray, or even Minnie Minoso, playing in five different decades, his last at-bats coming as a 58-year-old in 1980, but these stunts have stayed within the rules of the game.

If this new league wants to attract attention and fan interest, there are plenty of things they can try that haven't been attempted yet, while still maintaining the integrity and tradition of the sport we love as baseball.

I don't care if they have Clowns-Raping-Poodles night, or Senior-Citizen-Colonoscopy-Day, nothing would be as vile as them altering this most sacred of rule books and tainting this most holy of games.

Now go out and FIND THE FUCKING DOG!!!

TRADITION

During my years at the Courier News it became somewhat of a joke among the editors that no matter how hard I tried, my tales were always over the allotted inch count. Often well over.

Well, in keeping with that tradition, this, my second Blogspot blog, is a long one. Please bare with me as a weave a tale of shadiness, backstabbing, and the mooning of values.

I'll admit that I am a creature of habit and I resist change -- kicking and screaming -- at every turn. Even when it's an obvious upgrade, like my not joining the CD-buying world and lingering in my cassette fetish until I was in my 20s. But I still maintain that change for the sake of change, or even change for the better when sacrificing things like tradition, is not all good.

Case and point, my Sunday morning softball game.

For nearly 20 years, since I was a sophomore in high school, I have been playing softball on Sunday mornings at a quaint little field on the Union-Elizabeth border. Some of you have become regulars at this game, while many of you have attended on occasion. Even before I started playing as a wee lad, the game had been going. I estimate it has been in existence at this field for 40 years or so. In fact, we don't even have a permit anymore. After all, possession is nine-tenths of the law.

It is a relaxed low-pressured pickup game -- though heatedly competitive at times -- made up of people from the neighborhood and friends. We have people who drive from as far as upstate NY and the from down the shore to attend.

Now the field we play on is far from perfect. It is often neglected by the county for weeks, even months, at a time. The grass grows long, the infield sprouts foliage in spots, and the surrounding trees have become unkempt and, in spots, littered with thorn bushes, often making retrieving balls quite treacherous.

Some of us have done our own groundskeeping on many occasion. Mowing, filling in holes on the infield with sand we purchased, and even bringing in ladders and saws to trim the trees overhanging fair territory.

Also, over the years, a root has become increasingly uncovered right near third base, and sinkholes and other obstacles have become more prominent in the outfield.

Still, to me, all this is what gives this field personality. Lots of ball fields have them. That hill in center field in Houston; the jutting stands at many ballparks, the latent and lewd acts of homosexuality and satanic worship that goes on in the home clubhouse and dugout at Yankees Stadium, and even the ivy-covered brick walls at Wrigley Field.

This season, an uprising of sorts has begun to fester at the old ball field.

After a one-week weather delay, we opened this year on April 30th and I noticed that at least three or four regulars -- I mean hardcore cats who NEVER miss a week -- were not in attendance.

One week later, I had my answer as to why.

At some point over the last few years -- unbeknownst to those of us who are regulars at the field we have affectionately come to call "Palsy Park" -- it is located right next to the Cerebral Palsy Treatment Center of Union County -- another Sunday morning game has sprung up in town.

After an attempt by certain parties to get us to abandon our game in week 2 and join their's, I drove over to the new game to see who exactly the traitors were and subtly nudge them back into the fold -- with an aluminum bat.

As it turns out, the upstart game was being played on a pretty nice field a few minutes away from Palsy. They even had a permit. Several regulars were there and my blood began to boil.

What of tradition? What of loyalty? What of the fact that I have busted my ass for the seven or eight years to keep this fucking game going when the old guard got too old to play, many of the people my age married and moved out of town and attendance had dwindled to a dangerous level?

We have a hard enough time getting a game on a week-to-week basis without the rats jumping ship -- though we usually manage. Now what?

After much debate, and the realization that with several regulars not in attendance in that particular week due to family obligations our only hope for a game would be to combine what we had with what they had -- they were reportedly down from their regular 20+ attendance due to some sort of community function in town. Reluctantly, I agreed to join their game, and it was a good game, and in some ways I can credit the quality of this new field.

When I announced afterwards that we would be reconvening at Palsy the following weeks, there were some moans and groans, but everyone pretty much agreed.

I should have seen the coup coming right then.

By the time I got to Palsy this past Sunday, I had gotten calls from people that they were going over to the new field, tradition be damned.

Bunch of savages in this town!


EPILOGUE:

We only had a bout five of us at Palsy when arrived Sunday, with nine of our regulars reported at the other field. Funny part was that the upstart game was already full and had started already (they start at 9:00 a.m., I found out, we have traditionally began between 9:30-10:00). Our mutants were playing on the adjacent field, which we hadn't check out the week before.

Not wanting to screw our regulars that had not arrived yet and I wasn't sure if they were coming (Local Shill) and did not know about the upstart game, I fashioned a couple of signs with directions to the new field out of an old reporters notebook and some tape that Todd's brother had with him, we posted them at Palsy.

Upon arriving at the new field, I saw that it wasn't a well-kept, manicured softball field as we had played on the week before. It was a baseball field which had not had its infield dragged in a while, and there were puddles and mudslides all over the outfield, resulting from the weekend's rain.

By the time we got finished playing, many of us agreed that we would rather play at Palsy than on this baseball field which was way too big for softball.

We'll see what happens.

My change for $2.00 on a purchase of $1.98

The title of this, the first of what I hope will be regular posts on this site, was almost the name of my blog, but I figured, ehhh... that would be was pushing it from a shtick perspective.

Instead, I have gone to an old standby.

"My Two Cents" was the title of my column while sports editor of the Kean University student newspaper, "The Tower," and before that "The Independent." I wrote the column for nearly six years -- yes, I was on the six-and-a-half year plan in college.

While I enjoyed ranting and ripping on all topics sports while I pursued my degree, I intend to broaden my horizons here and hope to one day stir up as much shit in calling someone non-sports related "out to lunch" on this space, as I did with Muhammad Ali while at Kean.

It took until the mid-1990s for me to purchase my first CD -- I owned only cassettes and vinyl until then -- and I didn't become a regular Internet user until 1999.

I'm a bit slow to give into change.

So what finally prompted me to join the rest of the free-blogging world?

I have enjoyed the bloggings of other over the last few months -- see the side of this page for my favorites -- yet I limited my mental-vomit to my My Space page's blog (myspace.com/sjpsandman). Nothing hardcore, just random musings when the mood struck.

But when Todd started his blog, well, I refuse to be topped by a man who dwarfs me in stature, waist-size and hairline (that's me keeping it clean.. at least for now)

I am not going to type some long description of myself, my interests, my history, etc. If you are reading this, chances are you know what I'm pretty much about already. For those of you who don't, reading this blog should make it clear pretty quick -- no, this will not be a running account of what I hope will be the first championship season for the New York Mets in 20 years, though I'm sure the Orange and Blue will be discussed regularly.

I hope you enjoy what my sick, twisted mind has to offer.