Told ya!

See, I told ya I wasn't going to blog more in 2009.

But while I'm here, if I may, let me chime in one one quick thing:

Joe Torre might be my new hero.

Granted, I have always liked the guy, and I think writing that book totally taints his legacy for telling tales out of school, but he blew up the Yankees! How can I hold that against a man?

Just 14 days until pitchers and catchers!

Oh Man-NY (N)

(I swear, I have not resolved to blog more in 2009!!!!)

If you haven't seen Bill Price's "The Bitter Bill" blog on the New York Daily News Web site, it's really good, you should check it out.

Lately, Bill, who's a huge Mets fan and is not only a regular contributor to this blog as his Blogger alter-ego, but produces a high-quality personal blog of his own that many of you are fond of, has been blogging on The Bitter Bill about how the Mets need to sign Manny Ramirez.

Bill and I normally agree on most things -- at least those pertaining to the orange and blue -- but I think he's way off on the Manny issue, on several counts.

(note: I posted a version of this blog on the comments page on the Bitter Bill site under his post from Jan. 8, so if you come across it, no, you're not suffereing from extreme deja vu)

The talent and ability of Manny Ramirez is unquestioned. He is among the top 5 hitters in baseball over the past decade and change, and a force to be reckoned with in any lineup -- at least when he feels like it.

He is also a perfect fit for the Mets the way they're currently constituted: A right-handed hitting corner outfielder who hits for average and power. Plus, as a Latino, he would fit right into the culture Omar has built with this team.

But Manny's baggage and personality would be disastrous. He's proven it time and time again. The ONLY reason he performed so well for the Dodgers last season was that he wanted to both stick it to the Red Sox for them unceremoniously shipping his ass out of town, as well as trying to earn a big contract (we see how well that's worked out).

I for one have never booed a Mets player, unless I felt they weren't trying. I think it's counter-productive. Unfortunately, the majority of my fellow Mets fans don't agree.

You know what would happen in Flushing when Manny hits his first mini-slump and starts hearing the boos: He's going to shut down.

You think the reactions of Manny's fellow proud Latinos senors Delgado y senor Beltran were bad when they were booed? Wait till you see how baseball's biggest prima donna deals with New York's quick-triggered boo-birds.

And another thing, do you really want Manny's attitude affecting Jose Reyes? That kids already proven to be immature and impressionable. Remember how nervous everyone got when those rumors of Reyes' off-the-field activities were impacted so dramatically by the arrival of Luis Castillo and the departure of Jose Valentine?

Manny's a way more impressive role-model for a young man.

As for this need Mets fans seem to have of signing Manny just to compete with the Yankees' big signings this offseason, well, that's just insanity.

Nobody hates the Fourth Reich more than I do, but that is as a baseball fan, not as a Mets fan. The Yankees fortunes have zero effect on the Mets, save for a pair of three-game head-to-head series each summer.

Signing Manny just to get some of the attention back from their signing Sabathia, Burnett and Teixeira is simply ludicrous. Eff them. Let them sign every other free agent out there. They've already ruined baseball. Why stop now?

The bottom line is that the only way I would be comfortable with the Mets inking Manny is if they were to give him only one year guaranteed. This way, perhaps he'll remain motivated for an entire season, and if not, they can cut his whiney butt with minimal financial loss.

And you know there's no way he or his d-bag of an agent is going to go for that.

As for this comment on the Bitter Bill:

"Remember what happened to the Mets in the late 80s’? Kevin Mitchell - not exactly a solid citizen, but a future league MVP - was shipped out. Backman and Dykstra followed. Guys like Kevin McReynolds and Gregg Jefferies were brought it. It took the Mets almost 10 years to recover from moves like that."

Let's remember, the Mets won 100 games in 1988 with Jefferies and McReynolds, losing a 7-game series to the Dodgers in the NLCS, a team we beat 11-of-12 times during the regular season, and would have beaten again had David Cone not run his mouth in that newspaper column after Game 6. The Mets also were contenders in 1989 and 1990, missing out on playoff berths in the final week of each of those seasons.

Kevin Mitchel might have been a hood, a criminal and a cat murderer, but his attitude was never a problem, and his chemistry in the clubhouse was top-notch. Dykstra and Backman, sure, they were misanthropes who led lives of questionable morality. But they were not cancers in the clubhouse. They were team players who always played hard and always wanted to win.

The demise of the would-be dynasty wasn't really complete until '91-92 when the likes of Vince Coleman, Bobby Bonilla and Brett Saberhagen were brought in. All player with immense talent and crappy attitudes.

Just like Manny.

When it rains it pours

I swear, I have not resolved to blog more often in 2009. The fact this is my second post in three days after a four-month layoff is purely coincidental, but this is one I had to share.

Apparently, the Palestinians have extended their Jihad to included not only the state of Israel, but all citric beverages.




As if OJ Simpson didn't have enough to worry about!

Back with a whimper

If one of my new year's resolutions for 2008 was not to blog for the better part of the final four months of the year, then for the first time in my life I might have actually stuck to a new year's resolution.

In fact, it would also mean it's the first time in my life I've ever MADE a new year's resolution.

But no, I cannot blame vows for my lack of blogging, anymore than a Catholic priest can blame vows for diddling 12-year-olds (Sorry, I haven't blogged in four months, I have a lot of pent-up offensive things to say).

The truth is, most of the truly blog-worthy things that have come up over the past four months have been too depressing for me to take the time to actually write about them. (Plus, I was the one person who hadn't blogged since the last time Joe Pendleton blogged, and I didn't want him to feel bad -- y'know, cause I'm such a sweetheart and I always concern myself with not hurting people's feelings).


Let's review.

When I last chimed in here, the Mets had yet to execute a second straight September collapse, and the Jets had not played over their heads and then come crashing back to Earth in a manner of ugliness only the Jets can do,


Sports-related heartbreak aside, there were some noteworthy things I COULD have blogged about had I not been so busy/lazy/worried about Joe P's feelings.


- Metallica's first good studio album in 18 years (kicks ass, but not in the way the old school stuff kicked ass)

- Guns n' Roses' first studio album of any kind in 17 years (I'm not in love with the record, nor am I willing to accept it as an actual Gn'R album, considering it's just Axl and a bunch of dumbasses)

- The presidential election (best damn thing to happen to this country in a long, long time).

- The end of Shea Stadium (That was a difficult day)

- The 60-something-year-old Russian limo driver named Igor Yakubov who rear-ended me two block from my hut -- while I was at a complete stop -- and the ensuing insurance-related and rental-car related nightmare that's ensued.

- Plexico Burress (WOW!)

- Sarah Palin (Wow, for many of the same reasons)


Those were all things I COULD have blogged about over the past four months. Things I SHOULD have blogged about over the past four months. But what's done is done, you can't change the past, and you can't live in regret.

In any case, this is not a vow to blog more often in 2009. Consider it an acknowledgment of slackitude (If that isn't a word, it is now).

So in 2009, I will do my best to chime in on both the important and unimportant, the noteworthy and the not-so-noteworthy.

For now, I leave you with this bit of advice:

If you're stopped at a railroad crossing and a black Cadillac with New York livery plates comes speeding up behind you, floor it. At least if you get hit by a train your car will be totaled and won't reek of paint thinner for two months when you get it back from the body shop.

Momma never told me there'd be days like these

It's days like these I really need about four TVs and three computer monitors in the same room.

I got Jets-Dolphins and Rams-Eagles (heavy fantasy league implications) both on network TV at 1PM. We got another 4pm game on Network TV, plus the Sunday night game.

I got a Mets-Phillies doubelheader, plus I have the MLB package, so I need to check in on all the other games throughout the day.

I have fantasy baseball league playoffs in one league and stretch runs in two others. Of course, I have to monitor my two fantasy football teams, too, as well as all the wagers I've made on various game today.

I FUCKING LOVE THIS TIME OF YEAR!!!

What's up, Doc's

There have been countless times over the past few years that I have gone somewhere with The Joker, had a few drinks, and, at some point, told him he would be driving home.

Until Friday night, he never actually had to do it.

It had been years since I went out drinking in NYC -- other than a few trips to The Culture Club (which is still awesome). Back in the day, I would go out to one bar another in the city at least once a week. But since my friend, Sam, moved out, and since most of my friends have gotten married, become parents, and gotten lame, there really hasn't been much occasions for getting a crew together and heading across the Hudson.

Sure, I still go out. But it's usually in Jersey and, more often than not, it's to everyone's favorite South Bound Brook establishment for some raucous shtick and scintillating karaoke.

It was nice to recapture my fading youth, even for one night, and the place that had the honor is my new favorite East Village bar, Doc Holliday's.

A few weeks ago, while on my most recent AC jaunt, I befriended a nice young lady in the Borgata's poker room (who is also a hell of a poker player -- well, for a GURRRL -- ...I keed! I keed!). It turns out, she is the manager at Doc's, and one of the bartenders on Friday nights.

Over the past couple of weeks, she's told me repeatedly how much fun the place is and that I should come out, so I blew off band practice Friday night and The Joker and I headed in.

This place was right up my ally.

It's small, quaint, and definitely can be classified as a "dive bar," which is my favorite kind.

The jukebox is completely stocked with country music, which I dig, the clientele -- at least that night -- was bereft of the elitists yahoo yuppy toolboxes that often populate city bars, and both bartenders (Joanna and Alyssa) were half in the bag by the time we rolled in a little after 10 bells.

Less than an hour later, as I downed my third or fourth Captain and Diet (which were about 80 percent Captain and 20 percent Diet) and my second or so shot of Patron, I tossed The Joker my keys, told him he was driving home, and, as it turned out, meant it.

I kept drinking and enjoying the atmosphere, enjoyed some spirited shtick with the bartenders, bouncers, and some of the other patrons, and, we even raised a toast to the late, great George Carlin.

I am happy to report, enjoyed one of my all-time Top 10 benders that evening. I don't know how I continued to function. It was my first hardcore, all the way, drunken stupor since opening day 2006 at the Jets tailgate, where I consumed the large majority of a bottle of Captain Morgan on my own. Some of you witnessed that bit of fun.

We had a blast. Even The Joker, who was forced to remain relatively dry for the evening, reported he had a good time. I thoroughly recommend Doc Holliday's on your next trip into NYC. I might have to add it to my St. Patrick Day route -- well, assuming I can get back on that route this year after a two-year absence due to work conflicts (don't worry, Brooke, we'll still be starting the day at McSorley's).

For those of you who might be wondering, the answer is no. I did not pass out, I have not puked, and other than some minor queasiness and a general haze, I am none the worse for wear today.

Yes. I am hardcore (man taking a bow)

Stray dog

Before I get into the actual story here -- Chris Russo leaving WFAN -- a couple of comments about NYC's holy trinity of tabloid newspapers:

I grew up in New York, specifically Brooklyn, and while Newsday has always been a distant third to the Post and Daily News in most regards, my father always had Newsday delivered to the house because of its better coverage of the outer boroughs, plus he always liked their Mets-friendly coverage, especially in the 80s.

That said, while I think the above headline is phenomenal and actually had me laughing out loud, Newsday is the only one of the three papers that felt the Mike and the Mad Dog breakup was worthy of a back-page headline.

I don't know that I agree with that.

In any case, here's my take on the Mike and the Mad Dog split:

Chris Russo, by himself, sucks. His poor command of the English language and inability to pronounce certain everyday words rivals only a certain Texan that currently resides at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. It's not as charming. Russo's knowledge of sports is also sub-par for someone in his position and some of his theories and beliefs are off the charts retarded.

Mike Francesa, by himself, sucks. He is a pompous egomaniac, who, though his knowledge of sports is top-notch, finds himself at the edge of implosion if a caller dares to question something he said. He is boring, he drones on, he name drops to the point of nausea, and, frankly, is probably a dick in real life.

But Chris Russo and Mike Francesa together are great. They balance each other well, their banter is very entertaining, and, frankly, I always enjoy listening to them when they're together -- but never when they're alone.

But what frustrates me most about this split isn't so much that I'm going to miss listening to these clowns on the way home from work, but after all these years of listening to countless yahoos call in for the Superbowl trivia contest, I finally compiled a database with answers to all the types of questions they usually ask and I was gonna take a shot at a Superbowl trip this year. Damn it!

The bottom line is that with ESPN Radio gaining prominence in the NY area, if WFAN thinks they're not going to see a steep decline in their drivetime ratings with Russo's departure -- just as they would have had Francesa bolted and Mad Dog stayed -- they've got another thing coming.

If they do plan on bringing in a co-host for Francesa, it better be someone good. I think the station will be hard-pressed to find someone who complimented Francesa as well as Russo did -- the yin to his yang, if you will -- and I don't see this one ending well for our friends in Astoria.

I don't know the inside details on why one was kept and the other allowed to move on, but WFAN is about to learn the hard way that Mike without the Mad Dog is about as entertaining as Richard Neer on 20mg of Valium.

I know there are plenty of you out there who hated them together or apart, but I, for one, will miss the show immensely. I've been a regular listener to WFAN since Day 1, and as someone who spent a lot of time at home in the early days after being expelled from high school after high school, it was Mike and the Mad Dog that was my soundtrack to all the big sports stories of the time, and the same can be said about the years since.

Love 'em or hate 'em, Mike and the Mad Dog are part of the New York sports scene and have been for 19 years. And as someone who has never dealt well with change, this one is going to be hard to get used to.

Say something funny, Mike.

More shtick from Rotoworld

I have mentioned the wisdom of Rotoworld.com before, specifically some of the fine shtick that regularly appears on the site.

Perhaps you recall the gem about Kaz Matsui I blogged about a few months back.

Today's gem is bought to you by Arizona Diamondbacks catcher Chris Snyder:


Diamondbacks placed catcher Chris Snyder on the disabled list with a left testicular fracture.
That's gotta be even worse than an anal fissure. Snyder was injured when he was hit by a foul tip last night. Miguel Montero will start and be backed up by Robby Hammock while Snyder is out. He's worth adding in NL-only leagues.

Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits

..............................George Carlin 1937-2008


The thing that sucks most about lower back injuries is that the littlest, most routine day-to-day activity hurts like a bitch.

When I was about 18, I hurt my lower back when I decided it would be a good idea to make long throws with a baseball without warming up.

And while I was in agony for the next couple of weeks, I will always remember that period of excruciating pain as when I first discovered the genius of George Carlin.

I guess I was "aware" of Carlin before that, after all, I was always the smart-mouth, no boundaries, push the envelope, cross the line kinda cat you all know and love. But one Friday night, paralyzed with pain and hopped up on God knows what, I was sitting in the basement of my father's house watching TV when I happened upon a George Carlin special on HBO.

I, literally, couldn't watch it.

I was laughing so hard that I thought I was going to drop dead of pain. No matter how hard I tried not to laugh, I couldn't, no matter what he said. And after about five minutes I had to turn the TV off or I was gonna pass out from the pain in my back.

George Carlin died of heart failure Sunday night at the age of 71.

His bits were intelligent, poignant and right on the money. It wasn't the dick and fart jokes so-called "shock comedians" are doing today. Carlin was genius. And his routines -- though often crude and littered with scatological language -- were right on the money.

Anti-establishment, anti-organized religion, anti-closed-minded stupid people -- pretty much how I live my life.

He later appeared in a couple of Kevin Smith movies, including a major supporting role in my favorite of them all, Dogma, as well as roles in several other flicks that are near and dear to my heart.

I consider myself fortunate that I got to see Carlin live, in Las Vegas in 1998, and I'm so glad I at least got that chance.

I'm not a guy who has a lot of heroes. I can count them on one hand: Mike Piazza, Kevin Smith, Neil Peart, George Carlin.

My world is a little emptier today.

Hangin' 'em up

Thursday will mark exactly 10 years since the greatest day of my life.

It was May 22, 1998, when my pager went off while I was working at a pharmacy on a Friday afternoon in Warren, NJ, and it was my best friend, Sam.

I called him back and he told me that Mike Piazza had been traded from the Florida Marlins to the New York Mets, less than a week after he had been acquired from the Dodgers in a blockbuster deal.

After I made Sam swear on his life, as well as the life of his mother, father and all three of his sisters that he wasn’t bullshitting me, my knees went weak – literally.

I had fantasized about that moment for the better part of five years, since Piazza’s rookie season with the Dodgers, when I first fell in love.

He was awesome. Calm, cool, and boy could he hit the shit out of a baseball.

As time went on and Piazza’s career flourished more each season, I began to learn more about him. In addition to his prowess in the game I loved, he was a massive metal head, and even played the drums, things, like baseball, that were also near and dear to my heart.

He was my favorite player, more than anyone that even played for my favorite team, the Mets, and when he became a member of the orange and blue, well, I’m sure you can imagine how awesome that was for me.

I watched him play for NY-N for the better part of eight seasons and he delivered big hit after big hit, perhaps none grander than the first game at Shea after 9/11. Sure, he had his ups and downs, but no matter how bad of a slump he might have fallen into, I still enjoyed every at-bat.

When the Mets and Piazza parted ways after the 2005 season, I was fine with it. I knew it was coming and agreed that he needed to move on, both for himself, as well as for the good of the Mets organization.

After a year in San Diego and a year in Oakland, Mike Piazza officially announced his retirement today, two days shy of the 10h anniversary of that life-changing Friday afternoon.

And while his retirement has been a while coming – especially when he didn’t sign with anyone in the preseason – it still bought a tear to my eye.

Believe me, if I could make hotel reservations for Cooperstown for July of 2013, I would.

Hopefully Roger Clemens will be watching Piazza get inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame from his prison cell.

It's begining to look a lot like Christmas...

There is a God. And boy does he love me!

Us Jews don't normally get to celebrate what Christians do on Dec. 25. So what are the odds that Christmas would come twice in less than five months for this Hebe!?!?

First there was the whole Roger Clemens injecting HGH into his arse. After all, what's better than seeing the man I loath more than any other on this Earth have his entire career tarnished and reduced to a pathetic joke.

But now there's this

Don't forget to note the part that says she was 15 when this little romp began.

Man, if this shit continues, I might actually have to start going to synagogue again!

TMI*

*That's "Too Much Information" for the, um, abbreviatorily challenged.


For those of you who are into fantasy sports, you're probably familiar with rotoworld.com, which is the undisputed champion for fantasy sports news.

Now what's great about Rotoworld isn't just its being on top of breaking news, its brilliant analysis, and excellent site functionality, but every now and then they sprinkle in some brilliant shtick into its reports.

Still, as in-depth and thorough as Rotoworld is, nothing could have prepared me for the report I came across this evening while perusing the day's news:


Kaz Matsui will miss four to five days with an anal fissure.
That's an unnatural tear or crack in the anus skin, for those of you not in the know. Matsui is expected to be out until at least Friday. Anal fissures can become chronic problems, but the Astros hope using a different medication will sooth Matsui's issue.


I'll tell you the two most surprising things about this whole affair:

1. I didn't know The Joker was into Japanese men.

2. Who knew he was a top!

Happy Holiday!

Oh what a glorious day!

It's Feb. 14 and love is in the air.

The air smells sweeter, food tastes better, the sun is brighter and every ray touches my heart.

:-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-) :-)

PITCHERS AND CATCHERS REPORT TODAY!!!!!!

Long Live the Queen

Tonight, I watched another man live out one of my fantasies.

No, I didn't get to see a Jessica Alba sex tape, and no, neither Mike Piazza nor Kevin Smith had anything to do with this. I watched another man -- a fan -- come out on stage and sing with my favorite band.

The Sandman Winter Concert Series continued Thursday night as I headed back to the Starland Ballroom in Sayreville for the second time in a month, only this time, instead of a cover band, I saw the real thing. The band that ranks No. 1 on my list of favorite musical artists of all-time: Queensryche.

After a quick bite, my brother and I headed down to Sayreville poised for a fantastic show, and, as usual, the band did not disappoint. But before Seattle's finest hit the stage, and before the opening act -- a very large Don Dokken -- came and did an all-acoustic set that was simply fantastic -- even if he didn't play "Dream Warriors," from the movie "A Nightmare on Elm Street IV," he did play "Along Again Without You," which is a fantastic power ballad -- a couple of members of Queensryche's crew came out to run some contest they'd been holding on the current tour.

Apparently, through some process I didn't quite catch, three fans from around the country are selected to come out before each show and sing a karaoke selection from Queensryche's latest album, "Take Cover," which is a collection of cover tunes from artists including U2, Steven Stills, The Police and Peter Gabriel.

The first guy came on and did Black Sabbath's "Neon Knights," and he fucking rocked it. Nailed every note. And this wasn't from Black Sabbath with Ozzy, where you can throw back a bottle of Jack, pop some downers and go out and sing. This was Black Sabbath with Ronnie James Dio, a man whose pipes are among the best in the business. I was very impressed.

The next contestant did Queensryche's version of Pink Floyd's "Welcome to the Machine," and also did a fantastic job, albeit on a much easier song to sing. The third guy also did "Neon Knights," and he sucked. He was actually booed to the point they had to cut him short.

Needless to say, contestant No. 1, some cat from Buffalo, was the winner and his prize was getting to come out on stage during Queensryche's set and sing "Neon Knights" with them. That point in the show rolled around at the first song of the encore and after technical problems forced Queensryche lead singer Geoff Tate to sing the first verse, the fan was good to go by the chorus and he rocked it even harder to the point where Tate just stood off to the side grinning and nodding as the guy wailed with the band behind him.

Most of you know, I like to sing, and some have even had the unfortunate experience of listening to me bang out karaoke tunes, but to be on stage with my favorite band and sing with them, or even just play drums or guitar or something with them, well, that would be fucking incredible.

Anyhoo, after Dokken rocked, Queensryche came out and blew me away, as usual.

While they played -- surprisingly -- just one song off "Operation Mindcrime," a record I consider the greatest album ever made, they played plenty of my favorites from among their obscure stuff to make it a memorable evening, like "The Killing Words," "I Want to Get Close to You," and "Real World," off the "Last Action Hero" soundtrack -- hey, the movie may have been shit, but the soundtrack kicked ass!

Of course, other than virtually ignoring 'Mindcrime,' they played plenty of other favorites, like "Jet City Woman," "Another Rainy Night Without You," "Empire," and "Eyes of a Stranger," which was the only tune they played off 'Mindcrime.'

NOTE: Queensryche just completed a tour where they played the "Operation Mindcrime" and "Operation Mindcrime 2" records in their entirety, so I guess they were giving that material a rest.

Anyway, the show was fantastic as usual. The place was packed, the crowd was into it, and we had a good vantage point in the general admission venues, complete with a little ledge to half-sit on.

The concert series continues in three weeks when my brother and I will venture back into the world of Christian rock as we take in the Casting Crowns show at The Rock in Newark. We've got 10th-row seats for that show, so that should be phenomenal.

Also planned is a trip to see a Q&A with Kevin Smith at the Bergen PAC with Jersey Girl and The Joker, as well as a summer Rush concert at the Arts Center for the second straight year.

Pitchers and catchers report in less than two weeks, mothafuckas! Get fired up!

I'm actually considering going out and knocking up some unsuspecting dame just so I have a child I can name "Johan."

Parenting 101

Personally, I fail to see what the problem is.




PORTAGE, Wis. (Jan. 16) - Upset that his 7-year-old son wouldn't wear a Green Bay Packers jersey during the team's playoff victory Saturday, a man restrained the boy for an hour with tape and taped the jersey onto him.

Mathew Kowald was cited for disorderly conduct in connection with the incident with his son at their home in Pardeeville, Lt. Wayne Smith of the Columbia County Sheriff's Department said.

Pardeeville is about 30 miles north of Madison.The 36-year-old Kowald was arrested Monday after his wife told authorities about the incident. Kowald was taken to the county jail and held until Wednesday, when he pleaded no contest, paid a fine of $186 and was released.

Kowald's wife filed a restraining order Wednesday, so Kowald will not be able to have contact with his family, Smith said. Smith said other domestic issues have surfaced, though he wouldn't elaborate.

The boy refused to wear the jersey Saturday, when the Packers beat the Seattle Seahawks in a playoff game, Smith said. Smith said the incident sounded strange when reported at first, but the mother took pictures with her cell phone and that type of evidence is difficult to dispute.

Kowald, contacted later Wednesday by the Portage Daily Register, said the incident started as a joke. His son challenged him by saying he wouldn't root for the Packers. When he tied the boy up, the youngster was laughing while his wife took pictures, he said.

"Then he couldn't get out and he got upset and that's it. It lasted a minute," he said. "I didn't mean no harm, and he knows that, but I haven't been able to tell him that."

District Attorney Jane Kohlwey said there wasn't enough evidence to support felony charges.

"I wouldn't agree with what he did, but legally a parent can restrain a child," she said. "I have no proof of emotional damage. ... I have to follow the law.

Copyright 2007 The Associated Press.

Happy New Year

and shit

Some holiday shtick for the people

If I believed in heaven, the afterlife, or sending out holiday cards, this is totally something that i would do:



ASHLAND, Ore. (AP) -- Even in death, Chet Fitch is a card. Fitch, known for his sense of humor, died in October at age 88 but gave his friends and family a start recently: Christmas cards, 34 of them, began arriving - written in his hand with a return address of "Heaven."
The greeting read: "I asked Big Guy if I could sneak back and send some cards. At first he said no; but at my insistence he finally said, 'Oh well, what the heaven, go ahead but don't (tarry) there.' Wish I could tell you about things here but words cannot explain.
"Better get back as Big Guy said he stretched a point to let me in the first time, so I had better not press my luck. I'll probably be seeing you (some sooner than you think). Wishing you a very Merry Christmas. Chet Fitch"
A friend for nearly 25 years, Debbie Hansen Bernard said, "All I could think was, 'You little stinker.'"
"It was amazing," she said. "Just so Chet, always wanting to get the last laugh."
The mailing was a joke Fitch worked on for two decades with his barber, Patty Dean, 57. She told the Ashland Daily Tidings this week that he kept updating the mailing list and giving her extra money when postal rates went up. This fall, she said, Fitch looked up to her from the chair.
"You must be getting tired of waiting to mail those cards," he told her. "I think you'll probably be able to mail them this year."
He died a week later.

Rocket Fuel

I hate Roger Clemens.

But that's not news.

I think I've hated Roger Clemens since he was a Red Sox hurler in 1986, grinning, laughing and high-fiving in the Boston dugout in the waning moments of Game 6 of the World Series. Y'know, right before Stanley to Mookie to Buckner to pandamonium at the House of the Holy in Flushing.

But when Clemens, the head-hunting, lying, cheating, 'roid-shooting, redneck, beaned Mike Piazza in 2000, and then followed it up with the bat-throwing incident in the World Series that season, well, my hatred was taken to a whole new level, beyond even my hatred for Larry "Chipper" Jones.

Frankly, I wished Clemens would just die. And not quickly. Like in a farming accident.

And while, for me, Clemens' name on the Mitchell Report was a wet dream cum true in its own right, Friday morning's headline in The Trentonian made me as giddy as a school girl.

Sure, The Trentonian is a rag -- they of the Page 6 Girls and the "Roasted Nuts" headline after a fire at a mental institution -- but, to me, the destruction of my enemies -- not to mention the height of shtick -- has always trumped my desire for responsible journalism.

God bless the First Amendment.

Welcome to the Machine

My own personal winter concert series continued Saturday night as I headed to the Starland Ballroom in Sayreville with Jersey Girl, her cousin, Kevin, and his roommate, to take in a performance by The Machine, the world-renowned ultimate Pink Floyd tribute band.

Now being that it was Jersey Girl who purchased the tickets, and she was in Ireland all week, I realized some point early Saturday afternoon that we hadn't set any specific plan, and that once said plan was in place, the evening could be touchy -- y'know, jet lag.

That was never an issue. Once again, Jersey Girl proved how hardcore she is, and though she did show some minor signs of being sluggish, she never crashed. Amazing, considering she returned from Dublin mere hours before the show, and other than a five-hour nap on the plane, would have been a wake for more than 24 hours by the time all was said and done. Excellent work. Especially since she was headed for the Jets-Browns game the following day, and we all know how that goes. Unfortunately I had to sell my tickets to attend a family Chanukah gathering. Considering how THAT tilt turned out, it was probably best. Stadium security can consider my non-presence their own Chanukah miracle. But I digress.

So Jersey Girl and troupe arrived at the Westgate Manor at around 6:30 p.m. and we set out on our way with me at the wheel. After stopping at Chili's and enjoying a pregame meal, we headed south. After a few detours caused by, well, my inability to pay full attention to where I was going, since my focus was on, well, um, certain pre-concert traditions designed to get me in the right state of mind, we got to the Starland Ballroom at around 8:15 pm for a show advertised to start at 7:30.

I figured this would be perfect timing. They only advertised one opening act, so I figured we would catch the very end of that set -- or, if we were truly lucky, arrive as they were leaving the stage -- and be set to go when The Machine hit the stage.

Insert generic phrase about best laid plans of mice and men here.

We get inside and find a nice cozy spot up against the back wall behind the sound board. There were people behind us up in a room with a bar, they had seats and were perched in what were the best seats in the house (and possibly the only seats in the house, after all, Starland is a general admission venue), viewing the stage through glassless windows.

We'll get back to those yahoos in a bit.

Like I said, there was no seating in this place, so it would be a standing-all-night kinda evening, which I was prepared for. Unfortunately, as the house lights dimmed and the screen rolled up in front of the stage, the opening band took the stage.

Apparently, in Sayreville, 7:30 means 8:20.

While this wasn't ideal, we figured we'd deal, especially when the band -- Matt Koziel -- turned out to be pretty good. They were young, but did a great job with some blues-based rock tunes and some fantastic two-part harmonies between Matt and a cat that looked like the black kid in "Can't Hardly Wait" that went around trying to reminisce with everyone.

Granted, while the rest of the band looked totally average and casually dressed, the bass player looked very out of place with his vest, shit, tie, sunglasses and Mohawk, bouncing all over the place like he had angel dust of dinner. In fact, as Jersey Girl accurately quipped, the guy looked like he had escaped from No Doubt.

Still, the band was quality, and our appreciation of their work was only enhanced by the fact that they played for only 30 minutes.

Sweet. Time for The Machine.

Yeah, um, no.

The lights dimmed again and the screen rolled back up and a SECOND opening act took the stage.

Very not cool.

Apparently, in Sayreville, "The Machine, with special guest Matt Koziol" means "The Machine with special guest Matt Koziol plus a random shitty band of 19-year-old posers."

I knew we were in trouble when the one guy said he forgot the power chord for his keyboard and would just be singing, while the actual lead singer opened the show by saying he would like to dedicate the entire show to John Lennon, who, "was shot 20 years ago today."

Cheer up, Lennon was shot Dec. 8.... 1980!

But hey, what's 7 years between friends?

Needless to say, these guys weren't very good. And they fucking played longer than the advertised opening act.

Now a couple of things did manage to distract us from the shittiness of having to stand through two bands we didn't want to see.

First, it seemed like every freak in Jersey was out. Not to mention scores of very unattractive people in various getups. Dreadlocks, long and unwashed hair, beards, she-males. The list goes on. Of course, nobody complained when the two girls who couldn't have been older than 18 or 19 put on a little lesbian softcore show right in front of us, but still, wacky collection of cats at this joint.

Another thing we noticed is that there were a shit load of young kids -- high school age -- in the crowd. I guess they were there for the opening acts, but some seemed to be into The Machine when they finally came on, so kudos to the for recognizing quality tunege.

Unfortunately, the cats sitting behind us felt the need to bang away on the tables during The Machine's sets, which was quite annoying, not mention out of rhythm. At least I had the common courtesy to play air drums!

When all was said and done, and with my knees and Jersey Girl's back starting to act up, The Machine finally took the stage just after 10pm

It was worth the wait!

I swear, if I closed my eyes, I would have thought it was actually Pink Floyd on the stage. And they had a Floyd-esque stage set up, too (the accompanying photo is from a show they did somewhere in Europe a few years ago. There was no The Wall motif Saturday night, though they did have a nice psychedelic light show).

They played a nice sampling of most of Pink Floyd's albums, though they totally ignored Momentary Lapse of Reason and played just one song of The Division Bell and two off Dark Side of the Moon. But they played a bunch of tunes off The Wall, which is my favorite Floyd album, so it was all good.

With all the music in my collection it's hard to listen to all of it, and this band did an awesome job reminding me how much I truly love Pink Floyd.

A good time was had by all.

If at first you don't succeed....

So I went to see Bon Jovi again Sunday night -- their seventh of 10 shows at the Prudential Center in Newark (The Rock) -- and, overall, this was a much better show than opening night.

The trip in, which I made alone and then met up with some friends I grew up with at the arena, was smooth just like the first night, and I parked in the same parking deck right next to The Rock, albeit one level above where I parked last time.

Here's a quick breakdown:


WHAT WAS BETTER:

1. The seats:
After sitting, pretty much, in the fucking rafters on opening night, tonight I sat in Section 106, across the arena from the stage and slightly to the right, second row in what is, essentially, the mezzanine level.

2. The acoustics:
MUCH better sound this time. We could actually hear what was being said on stage and got more of a full effect from the music.

3. The people around us:
While Jersey Girl and I were the only people in our section, it seemed, on opening night that were actual Bon Jovi fans, tonight everyone around me was into it, up and singing. The first night, as we sat in a comp section, the seats around us were half full and pretty much everyone stayed seated throughout the show.

4. The opening act:
As opposed to My Chemical Romance and a setlist that was totally foreign to me, I very much enjoyed Daughtry and knew most of the tunes he played, as he has several songs that have been played on the radio.

5. My state of mind:
Unlike opening night when I was stone cold sober, we actually pounded a few beers tonight, so I had a nice buzz going.

6. The Setlist:
A couple of nice surprises, like Richie singing one of his solo tunes, "Stranger in This Town," as well as some tunes they didn't play the night I was there last week, but had at shows since, like "Runaway," "Lay Your Hands on Me" and Radio Saved My Life Tonight."
Also, they not only played a tour-high 24 songs tonight, but they only played five new tunes, as opposed to the eight they played last Thursday.


WHAT WAS WORSE:

1. Arrival:
Unlike the first night when we sauntered right in upon arriving, we did have to wait online for about 10 minutes to get into the building.

2. Unlike the first night when we got right out of the parking deck, tonight it took me a good 45 minutes from the time I got into my car until I was out on the street. Still, while last time the traffic pattern took us in a circular route back toward our way home, this time, once I got out of the parking deck, I was able to get right back onto Broad St heading South and was home in no time.

3. Absent from the setlist:
While the overall setlist was much better than the first night, they did not play "Blood on Blood" on Sunday night, which is my favorite Bon Jovi tune. They did play it opening night. Also, they did not play "Keep the Faith" the first time I was there, another song I love, but did play at a bunch of other shows, They did not play it Sunday night.

***

I am toying with the idea of going back for one of the three remaining shows this week, but that's probably a longshot.



SUNDAY NIGHT'S SETLIST
* = song from new album
INTRO
LOST HIGHWAY*
YOU GIVE LOVE A BAD NAME
RAISE YOUR HANDS
RUNAWAY
STORY OF MY LIFE
I LOVE THIS TOWN*
WHOLE LOT OF LEAVIN'*
MAKE A MEMORY*
BORN TO BE MY BABY
RADIO SAVED MY LIFE
WE GOT IT GOIN' ON*
IT'S MY LIFE
COMPLICATED
BAD MEDICINE W/ SHOUT
STRANGER IN THIS TOWN (Richie Sambora solo song)
RIGHT SIDE OF WRONG
LAST MAN STANDING
LAY YOUR HANDS ON ME
HAVE A NICE DAY
WHO SAYS YOU CAN'T GO HOME?
LIVIN ON A PRAYER

ENCORE:
BELLS OF FREEDOM
WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE
I'LL SLEEP WHEN I'M DEAD

Shlock at The Rock

All the hype, the anticipation, the planning and scrambling failed to deliver the payoff as Bon Jovi opened the Prudential Center in Newark on Thursday night – The Rock, if you will -- the first of 10 shows they’ll be playing over the next week and a half.

A couple of months ago, I got a call from Jersey Girl, who was on a business trip in San Francisco, and she stated the obvious – something I still don’t know why I didn’t think of first: Bon Jovi was playing the first ever event at the new arena in Newark and we HAD to be there for the opener.

Of course, I agreed, and eventually was able to secure a pair of tickets for opening night, two of the last available for a show that would soon sell out.

A classic New Jersey evening, of course, requires a classic New Jersey dining experience, so after we met up at the A&P parking lot in Kenilworth, where Jersey Girl stashed her vehicle, we headed to the Tropicana Diner on the Elizabeth/Union/Hillside border, right down the street from Phil Rizzuto Park.

And while neither of us were about to order the same type of meal we would have ordered as teenagers – I had a nice chef salad, while Jersey Girl enjoyed a grilled chicken sandwich with a side of rice substituted for French fries – anything consumed at a real Jersey diner was well worth it.

Fed, we headed for Newark.

Now, the original plan was to drive to Hillside, park at my mom’s hut and, in an effort to avoid what promised to be a parking cluster-fuck, have my brother drop us off at the arena and then take a cab back to Hillside post-show. Unfortunately, that didn’t work out, as my brother had some last minute shit to take care of in Brooklyn that night and wouldn’t be around to take us. After tossing around a couple of alternate ideas, we decided that I would just drive to the arena and risk whatever parking issues would arise.

Amazingly, the parking situation was, probably, the highlight of the evening.

We arrived at the arena and parked in the garage right next door, even with the $25 price tag. As we made the short walk to the arena’s south entrance, I got a call from my boy, Matt – he of the plan to fly up from Florida to join me for Bon Jovi twice over the past couple of years and then not show up. He and I are always trying to get a jump on setlists, trying to figure what they’ll open with, what rarities they’ll play, etc., and Matt said he had been reading tales online and that Bon Jovi had rehearsed a couple of deep cuts from back in the diz-uh, including “Wild is the Wind.” He also said he’d read that Bon Jovi had planned a lot of surprises for opening night and wouldn’t be playing a lot off the new album, “Lost Highway” until later in the tour.

This, of course, fired me up to no end and I began feeling that giddy anticipation I usually get before a show as we prepared to enter.

Now, we kind of got an inclination that the arena was not quite ready for opening night. First, we had both heard from The Professor that there were things that were still not done when he visited last week. We also passed windows looking in at the Devils’ practice rink as we walked toward the entrance, and there were still things that needed tiding, wires hanging out, shit like that.

But as we approached the entrance of the arena, it looked great. Shiny, new -- almost as if we weren’t in Newark. We even found out later that there was, apparently, a red carpet with some celebrities arriving, but, thankfully, we never happened upon any of that.

We headed in, and the employees were all very nice, wishing everyone a cheerful “Welcome to The Rock” as they waved the electric wands over our persons and checked our belongings.

Other than a faint smell of fresh paint, it is a beautiful arena and it had all the promise of a great evening.

That’s when we realized we weren’t alone in being fired up.

As we headed up the first escalator to the 100-level, there were balconies off to the right for smokers. About a block from the arena on a rooftop parking deck – in plain sight for all to see – we all got a nice treat in the form of a car fire.

Let me just say this: While the story I’ve linked to claims the fire was “put out very quickly,” let me assure you – and Jersey Girl will attest to this – that is complete bullshit. We watched that fucker burn for a good five minutes or so before we lost interest and moved on, and by then the firefighters still hadn’t arrived.

Anyway, after that bit of excitement and quick trip to the very impressive bathrooms, we headed to our seats in Section 233 – that’s when the evening took a turn in a southerly direction.

I don’t know if the power that be just wanted to cram as many seats into the arena as possible, or if someone fucked up in their haste to have the building finished on time, but the seats in Section 233 were simply too fucking small – and I’m not just saying that as a man of considerably size. There were several people in our section – men and women alike, all smaller than me – that were also having trouble with their seats.

Even Jersey Girl, who is of average girth, was having trouble getting comfortable.

Thankfully, one of the cats who was having trouble with his seat complained to an usher, who contacted her supervisor, and the gentlemen was kind enough to relocate us, as well as the others, to Section 214, which not only had bigger seats, but was just to the right of the stage – our original vantage point had us in the far left corner of the arena, as far from the action as you can be.

Crisis averted. Seats upgraded. My master plan of all those late-night trips to through the drive thru and meals made of fried food, chocolate and cheese was finally paying off!

As we settled into our new seats amid the “Let’s Go Devils” and “Rangers Suck” chants that, for some strange reason, people felt the need to share at a rock concert, we got ready for My Chemical Romance, which was to be the opening band. I was looking around for some Devils fan to slap, but there was none in my immediate vicinity, and, frankly, I didn’t feel like getting up.

The people who had been transplanted from out original section began arriving in our new home, including a couple that had to be in their 70s. Nice people, but I think the lady actually through she was breaking news when she informed us that Jon Bon Jovi was from Sayreville. Of course, we chatted about how much of an improvement these seats were, and she let us know about the awful flight they had taken that morning on Lufthansa Airlines from Frankfort to Newark, and how cramped the seats were on the plane.

Good tip. Avoid Germany. My rabbi thanks you.

Anyway, MCR came on at about 7:35 p.m – five minutes late – and while I’m sure they’re very nice boys and the kids really dig ‘em, we didn’t know one friggin’ song. I mean, we had both heard of this band, but I was surprised that none of their tunes rang a bell. I thought I recognized the final tune of their 45-minute set from playing MLB The Show on Playstation 3 with my brother, but I could be wrong. The band was fine, I guess, though the lead singer looked like a Robert Smith knockoff, rolling his eyes in his own private orgasm.

After MCR’s delightful serenading, it was time for a walk. I needed a cigarette, and Jersey Girl was kind enough to accompany me on my trek to find the smoking area.

We met some wonderful people on our quest. The arena staff who had good intentions, but, for the most part, had no idea what was what and where was where in the building, as well as a nice tattooed gentleman in one of the stairwells, who was also looking for a place to pollute his lungs. He shared his belief that it was only a matter of time before the nice new, clean arena was overrun with graffiti and other eye, nose and throat sores, being that it was in Newark, and, to be honest, we couldn’t whole-heartedly disagree.

Nice guy.

After circling the arena, we finally found a suitable place for me to smoke, and as I enjoyed my stogie with some other fine folks, we admired the run down surroundings of The Rock.

It seemed to me that someone would have realized that property value in the surrounding area would be going up and purchased and renovated the abandoned and boarded up buildings next to the arena, but alas, no.

Where Tony Soprano when you need him?

We headed back to our seats and it was time for Bon Jovi.

The house lights went down and the stage lights came on, and the background scenery, which was set up to look like a bar or restaurant of some sort, came to life.

One at a time, the members of the band came onto the stage, some carrying cases of beer, some acting like patrons, and they started playing some country tune.

Something told me they weren’t about to launch into “Let It Rock.”

As Jon arrived on stage, the band kicked into “Lost Highway,” the title track from the new album, which was predictable, although not, as I had hoped, a deep cut or a classic.

So be it.

Unfortunately, things didn’t improve.

After the opening tune, they played “You Give Love a Bad Name,” and proceeded to complete the first nine songs of the set, much to my chagrin, five of them were from the new album.

Not a good way to start, sirs.

Additionally, we just weren’t feeling it. We weren’t vibing the normal energy of a Bon Jovi show.

Several factors could explain this unfortunate situation:

We were very high up, the top-most section of the arena and couldn’t even make out much of what Jon was saying to the crowd between songs. The full sound simply wasn’t reaching us, which was made obvious by the fact that we could hear each other speak without yelling into one another’s ear.
Our section wasn’t close to full, and many of the people there might not have been hardcore Bon Jovi fans, being this was a comp section. Most of the people in 214 remained seated throughout the show.
We were both stone cold sober.

Still, we did the best we could to enjoy the show. The band sounded as best as could be expected, considering it was the first show of the tour and the acoustics in the building – or at least where we were – sucked.

I was not enjoying this as I should have been, to the point where all my negativity prompted Jersey Girl to tell me something along the lines of “shut the fuck up until you have something positive to say.”

Finally, at song #12 of the set, I had a reason to say something nice, as the band played “These Days,” a tune I had not heard them play live since the tour by the same name in 1996. And while I was fired up as all hell, my enthusiasm was somewhat dampened by the fact that Richie Sambora and not JBJ sang lead on the song.

Unfortunately, they ruined it two songs later by playing “Blaze of Glory.” Not that I don’t like to song, but the fuckers went and played the version off that bastardly album “This Left Feels Right,” which they released a few years ago containing new, shitty versions of some of their classics, and I was not very happy about that.

Of course, the fact that they played my favorite of their tunes “Blood on Blood” during the encore somewhat salvaged the evening – they play the song regularly, but not at every show – so by the time they finished off with “Livin on a Prayer” and “Wanted Dead or Alive,” the evening wasn’t a total disaster.

Neither was the trip out of the arena and out of Newark.

Thanks to some nice work by Jersey Girl finding the staircase that would take us from our section right out to the parking garage, we were at the car and on our way within minutes of the house lights coming on.

We hit a little bit of traffic looping around and down to McCarter Highway, but once we hit Route 21 we were home free.

We hit a McDonalds drive thru on the way so I could quench an awful thirst with a large Diet Coke, while Jersey Girl indulged in a chocolate sundae.

To sum it up, the location and potential parking issues were not a problem, that all went smoothly, despite my worst fears. The arena is beautiful, and will probably be even better once everything has its finishing touches, they replace certain seats, and the staff learns where everything is. The band was good, not great, but they really need to stop playing so many damn new songs – they played 8 of the 12 tunes from the new album.

I am returning for the Nov. 4 show, when my seats will be better and I do not plan on arriving sober. That, in and of itself, should make for a better concert experience.



THURSDAY NIGHT’S SETLIST
* = from new album

1. Lost Highway*
2. You Give Love a Bad Name
3. Summertime*
4. Born to be My Baby
5. Older
6. Whole Lot of Leavin’*
7. Make a Memory*
8. It's my Life
9. We Got it Goin' On*
10. Have a Nice Day
11. In These Arms
12. These Days (Richie on lead vocal)
13. Seat Next to You*
14. Blaze of Glory (This Left Feels Right version)
15. I Love This Town*
16. I'll Sleep When I'm Dead
17. Raise Your Hands
18. Bad Medicine/Shout
19. Who Says You Can't Go Home?

ENCORE
20. Any Other Day*
21. Blood on Blood
22. Livin' on a Prayer

23. Wanted Dead or Alive

Oh boy

I have heard some stupid fucking things in my lifetime, but this just made me want to bang my head against the wall.



I would like to thank the good people at rotoworld.com for this nugget about Miami Dolphins linebacker Channing Crowder.



Just in case anyone mistakes the University of Florida for an Ivy League school, I bring you the following lesson in sociological geography:



With the Dolphins traveling to London, England, this weekend for a regular-season tilt with the New York Giants, Crowder said Wednesday he didn't know until Tuesday that people in London speak English.




"I couldn’t find London on a map if they didn’t have the names of the countries," he said. "I swear to God. I don’t know what nothing is. I know Italy looks like a boot. I know London Fletcher. We did a football camp together. So I know him. That’s the closest thing I know to London. He’s black, so I’m sure he’s not from London. I’m sure that’s a coincidental name."





Somebody. Please. Kill me.

Insult to injury

You just can't make this shit up.

SICK

I'm going to puke.

Wally's World

As much as it pains me to return to the blogosphere after nearly two months of neglecting ye faithful readers of My Two Cents with less-than-happy news, I felt it my responsibility as a connoisseur of the Orange and Blue to share some news that came across the AP wire this evening.

ALBANY, Ga. (AP) … Wally Backman joined the independent South Coast League
hoping to show he deserved another chance to manage in the big leagues. He
didn't even make it through the season.
Backman resigned Tuesday as manager of the Albany-based South Georgia
Peanuts after numerous run-ins with umpires, an argument with a radio announcer
and even a forfeited game when his team refused to return to the field after a
brawl with rival Macon.
Backman stepped down even though he led the Peanuts to the first-half title
and had them in first place through the first 23 games of the second half.
The brief, stormy tenure is sure to hurt Backman's chances of hooking up
with a major league organization. He was hired by the Arizona Diamondbacks
shortly after the 2004 season, only to get fired less than a week later after
reports surfaced that he had been arrested twice and struggled with financial
problems.
Backman was out of the game for the past two seasons and admitted that no
one wanted to hire him. He finally took a job with the first-year South Coast
League, eager to get another chance in the majors.
The former second baseman helped the New York Mets win the 1986 World
Series.

Normally, when someone is shunned and blackballed for the type of alleged behavior that has kept Sir Wallace from getting a real managing job, I would shrug it off with a simple “fuck ‘em.”

But this is Wally Backman, one half of the Wild Boys, who was just as responsible for the Mets’ success in the mid-80’s and the 1986 world title as anyone else on that squad, including Keith Hernandez, Gary Carter, Doc Gooden, et al.

Backman remains one of my favorite baseball players of all time, and it’s a pity that his fiery personality and scrappy approach to baseball has gotten his in such hot water off the field.

I, for one, hope Wally can get his shit together and does get a Major League managerial job someday.

I would even welcome him to Flushing.

A Midnight Train Going Anywhere

WARNING: IF YOU HAVE NOT SEEN THE SOPRANOS FINALE, DO NOT READ THIS BLOG!!!
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All week, I've heard countless theories on how The Sopranos was going to end.

Everybody and their pet schnauzer had an idea, and, frankly, I got fucking tired of hearing about it.

That said, the ending couldn't have been more perfect.

I didn't know whether Tony would live or die, and frankly I didn't have a preference. I just didn't want the ending to be lame or predictable.

This was neither.

NOBODY saw this coming.

The build up was awesome. Carlo flips -- is Tony going to get indicted? Will the New York underboss go back on his word? Would some past character return for revenge? Will someone in his blood-family get clipped?

Then, perfectly, in the company of his family -- the underlying theme of the entire series -- the climax begins to build as Steve Perry starts to croon my favorite Journey song.

(Just a small town girl, livin' in a LONE-ly world.....)

The strange guy at the counter. What's he gonna do? He goes into the bathroom -- the Godfather-ending scenario being setup?

(A singer in a smokey room.......)

Meadow arrives. She has trouble parking the car. She's delayed. The Bronx Tale ending being setup. Sonny!!! NOOOOOOO!!!!

Camera cuts from shot to shot. The blood pressure shooting toward the sky.

(STRANGERS, WAITING, UP AND DOWN THE BOULIVARD....)

Meadow enters... Your heart's bearing a mile a minute

(DON'T STOP BELIEVIN... HOLD ON TO THAT FEEEEEEEE-LIN)

The door chime sounds..... you stopped to breathe.

Here's the payoff.......

FADE TO MOTHERFUCKING BLACK!!!!

BRILLIANT!

Ask the Joker. I let out a jubilant cry as if David Wright took Mariano Rivera yard.

Well done, Mr. Chase!

I am still shaking from the adrenaline.

David Chase is a genius.

For the first time in my life, I am loving a case of blue balls.

Whether there is ever a Sopranos movie or not, this was the perfect ending to one of the greatest television programs ever made.

Salu'te!

Happy Anniversary

I just noticed, it's been one year since I began My Two Cents, not to mention one month since I posted anything here.

I suck.

What can I say, I've been devoting all my blogging time to my Courier News softball blog. I promise to get back to regular shitck here after the softball season ends at the beginning of June.

For now, to quote Vigo the Carpathian in Ghostbusters 2, "Death is but a door. Time is but a window. I'll be back."

Hell's frozen over

It was bound to happen. The Courier News has finally made me blog. Like I keep this damn thing updated; they actually think I'm going to blog regularly about high school softball?!?!

There is a link on this page along with the other CN blog links.

There will be little to no shtick.

Also, Carino, Frezza and I recorded out first baseball-softball podcast, "Bats and Balls." It should be up by Thursday. It can be found by going to the Courier News Web site

Mets on pace to go 160-2.

Take Me Out To The Ball Game

There is something in the air. The same vibe we feel every year at this time. No matter where we are or what we are doing we can sense it.

Whether it is 70 degrees and sunny, raining and cold, or even in some cases there is snow on the ground, it is all around us.

Every year, the first week of April, the buzz is everywhere. It is opening day of the Major League Baseball season.

On this magical day no matter who we are -- a casual fan or a hardcore baseball junkie -- we can feel the excitement in our bones. Even non-baseball fans realize that it is opening day.

Among the unexplainable phenomena that occur on the first Monday of April is the mysterious ailment that strikes many people. The disease causes mass absences, depleting attendance at schools and temporarily crippling the American workforce. For some reason the illness is only treatable by going to the stadium or watching the game on television.

Opening day is magical for many reasons. After six long weeks of watching 19-year old hopefuls, 40-something has-beens and career minor leaguers in Florida and Arizona, opening day is usually the first look we get at the lineup our team is going to go to war with for most of the season.

It is also a day when everyone is even and no team is better than yours. Everyone is 0-0 and has a shot at an undefeated season.

There are 30 teams we swear are going to win it all.

We are so sure that our favorite player is going to win the Most Valuable Player award, our team's ace will win the Cy Young, and our arch-rivals will finish dead last.

Opening day is also a day when we can look back at the past and hope for the future. This year we wonder if the Mets can return to the postseason and perhaps even take the next step. We wonder if Alex Rodriguez will be able to keep his dick out of Derek Jeter’s ass long enough to get a clutch hit. And whether the Detroit Tigers can repeat their unexpected success of a season ago.

Who will throw a perfect game this season? Who will emerge as baseball's next superstar? It is a day full of possibilities and promise that can not even be tainted by Gary Matthews Jr. or Barry Bonds.

On opening day we witness grand ceremonies at stadiums across the country. We hear superstars singing the National Anthem and see celebrities, world leaders and past baseball greats throwing out the first pitch.

It is also a day when we see both teams throw their aces at each other, and we get to see the new acquisitions for the first time when it counts. We get our first looks at some of the new stadiums, and see the changes some teams have made to their old haunts.

Teams that are lucky to draw 5,000 a game during the season suddenly have packed houses on opening day. Everybody wants to be a part of it.

After a long cold winter, there is nothing like walking through the tunnel out to your seats at the stadium and seeing the green grass glistening in the sunlight, as the players in their crisp clean uniforms warm up on the field.

From the red, white and blue celebratory bunting hanging from the stands, to the pre-game introductions, it is all part of the magic.

Around town, every bar and restaurant has the game up on the big screen. The patrons explode in glee with every hit their team gets and every defensive gem their player turns in.

There are people on the streets listening to the game on their portable radios. The old men in the park playing checkers, or those sitting on their porches, hang onto every pitch as the announcer's voice blares out. Memories of Joe D, The Mick, and the Splendid Splinter dance about in their heads.

No other sport is capable of causing this mass hysteria. No other game captures our hearts and imaginations like baseball. Opening day is the christening of a new season that will bring us joy, sadness and a whole new set of memories for us to forever replay in our minds.

As we settle into our seat at the ballpark, or get comfortable in our favorite easy chair in our living rooms or den, remember how the day makes us feel. Remember the feeling as the life is breathed back into our bodies when the man in blue points to the pitcher and barks the words we have been waiting to hear since

October. “Play ball!'”

Two Jews walked into a church...

Two ticket to Christian rock concert, $88.10.

Parking, $12.

Seeing 7,000 people giving the Hitler salute, priceless!


Who knew I would actually PAY to attend a church service for the first time?

I didn’t know quite what to expect when my brother and I arrived at the Continental Airlines Arena on Sunday night for a Christian music concert starring Chris Tomlin, Mark Redman and Louie Giglio.

We arrived at around 6:30 for a 7:30 p.m. show, and parked right up front in a handicapped spot – and you people think I’M shady? My brother’s the one with the decal.

We went in to pick up our tickets at Will Call and the first thing that struck us was the massive number of Asians in attendance. Aren’t these people supposed to be Buddhists or something?

Anyway, we got our tickets and went back to the car to hang out, listen to some tunes, smoke a little herb and get ready for what we both knew would be a very interesting evening.

We finally made our way inside and over to our seats in Section 124. As we settled in and looked around it became increasingly clear that this wasn’t going to be a normal rock show, something that should have struck me immediately when they let me keep the cap to the bottle of water I purchased, as well as the fact the security guard that frisked me upon my entering the arena simply gave me a quick pat down and never grabbed my crotch, something I look forward to when I normally enter a venue.

It was a pretty young crowd. There were a lot of teenagers, young teenagers even, and lots of families. When the father, mother, son and daughter sat in the row in front of us, and the little girl, who couldn’t have been more than 7 or 8 years old had her doll in tow, well, somehow I knew I wouldn’t be yelling out “show us your tits!” toward the first decent-looking chick I saw once the lights went down.

Once the show began, if only for a couple of moments, it all seemed like a normal concert. Everyone got on their feet as the band hit the stage, the music sounded great, the band was really rocking. Soon we realized the headliner, Chris Tomlin, was on stage and we thought it was a bit odd that the opening acts didn’t go on first. Then, as he started singing, the lyrics to the song appeared on the screen behind him, which also wasn’t something we were used to

My brother and I looked at each other and shrugged, and went back to enjoying the festivities, singing along with the rest of crowd.

Slowly, many of the people around us starting lifting their arms toward the stage in a Hitler salute, something, that soon dawned on me, I had seen in those infomercials. I guess this is how Christians worship.

Alright. Cool. We hadn’t wandered into a Nazi Youth meeting.

Everything was going great. While it didn’t inspire me to accept Jesus Christ into my life, nor did it make me want to re-embrace religion of any kind, I was definitely able to see how people are moved by the experience. Hell, I got into it and was singing along, too. Passionate music is passionate music, even if they are singing about something I don’t believe in.

We were having a great time. We knew a lot of the songs and were able to sing along, even when Mark Redman, the “opening act,” took over for Chris Tomlin and played his tunes with the same band, it was all good.

But we still hadn’t heard from Louie Giglio. That was soon remedied.

As Tomlin, who had come back, finished up a tune (Redman sang lead for about one-third of the evening) a gray-haired man without a guitar arrived on stage holding a book.

Yes, as it turned out, it was THAT book, and somehow I knew the evening was about to take a non-musical turn.

As it turns out, Louie Giglio wasn't another singer, but some sort of preacher. He proceeded to preach for the next half hour or so, giving forth what was, for my purposes, a free science lesson, covering astronomy, biology and even molecular biology. (Hey, did you know, Laminin, the molecule that holds our cells together, is shaped like a cross, as is the center of the Whirlpool Galaxy, if you look through the Hubble Telescope? Oh, and apparently, Earth is a golf ball).

After the sermon, complete with inspirational background music and a Power Point presentation, there was an intermission – this was two hours into the show.

As Mini-Me and I headed out for a cigarette we noticed a few very strange things:

* There was no beer on sale, or alcoholic beverages of any kind. So much for replenishing our buzz.

* There was about 7,000 people in attendance and two gates open for smoking breaks (the arena was set up theater style, with half the building curtained off). During intermission, a total of 19 people joined us in lighting up outside Gate D. Does that mean, if you combine the two gates, only 38 out of 7,000 people were cigarette smokers? A total of .005% of the crowd. No wonder Christianity has endured; no lung cancer!

* There were no dames in slutty clothes wandering around. Just wholesome people, Christians, and nobody was getting loud, getting into fights and there was no cursing, at all. I even found myself watching my language!

* Even out on the concession lines, as the band started back up before we had a chance to return to our seats, people were singing along.

* Nobody bared their breasts during “How Great is Our God.”


As we got back in for, what would prove to be, the final hour of the show, the intensity had picked itself up a notch. The preacher was gone and the band was sounding better than ever. I even found myself throwing up a Hitler salute or two when they played a couple of the songs I really liked, including a kickass version of Amazing Grace.

Even the 50-something-year-old yahoo sitting in front of us, who my brother was sure was an a convicted sex offender, was getting more fired up. I’m telling you, this cat had to be from Manville. He even had a friend with him, who might have been his muscle, a large man who never said a word or moved very much throughout the show. He kinda reminded me of Frezza’s friend, Homes.

This guy was great. When Chris Tomlin was telling the crowd how he wrote this and this song at this and this place, this yahoo in front of us would bust out with something like “It’s God’s song! He put it in you!” Or, if Jesus’ name was mentioned, he would cry out, “Amen! Hallowed be is name!” this guy had a comment for everything, and it was awesome. He even got my brother to throw out a patronizing “Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!” a few times, which I wasn’t too thrilled about.

In all seriousness, while I might be one step from being a full-blown atheist, I do respect religion. Not the people who run it, but the people who truly benefit from it, even if I might believe it’s a load of hooey. Some people need that kind of structure in their lives and I applaud their faith and discipline, and I am happy for them that they’ve found something that gets them through their days and gives their lives meaning.

One thing, however, that was disappointing is that I didn’t see anyone “speaking in tongues,” something I was told to be on the lookout for by my friend, Mike, who is a devote Christian, even if he does enjoy MILF porn.

Apparently, some people get so fired up by the religious experience, that they slip into a sort of trance and start speaking some kind of gibberish as they “feel the love of the lord take over their body.”

I had my video phone on ready waiting for that shit, but alas, there was none of it.

Stench.

All in all I really had a great time. The music was great, the people were disturbingly polite, and it was a very interesting experience.

One other regret, though. This shindig lasted for three hours and we never ran into Jesus. I was kind of hoping to meet a fellow Jew at a Christian Worship show.

But I did run into one Bob Makin, the Courier News’ fine music editor, so it wasn’t a total loss.

My brother and I have already begun looking into the next show in the area, maybe we’ll see someone speaking in tongues there, or maybe, if we’re truly blessed, we’ll meet Jesus.

Fingers crossed!

God bless you all.